


the seventh year itch

by girltalk, idolrapper (wonwoo)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Friendship is Magic, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Quidditch World Cup, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2018-08-17 11:06:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8141581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girltalk/pseuds/girltalk, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonwoo/pseuds/idolrapper
Summary: Pass our N.E.W.Ts, ensure a career, make Wonwoo learn about love, seventh year.
A Goblet of Fire AU, in which Wonwoo, Seokmin and Soonyoung are the Golden Trio that never was.





	1. brew the potion, catch the scent, now hook up, inside a tent

**Author's Note:**

> to note: this fic closely follows the events in _harry potter and the goblet of fire_ but many liberties have been taken! the names of the professors at hogwarts have been changed. 96 line and 97 line are seventh years. for reference, wonwoo is a ravenclaw, seokmin is a hufflepuff and soonyoung is a gryffindor. seokmin/wonwoo is endgame, but their friendship w/ soonyoung makes up a great deal of this fic.
> 
> wonwoo: i'd like to thank my sweet hufflepuff duo, reet for wiping my tears during shining diamond at our fanmeet, and xtina for working so hard halfway across the world. lastly, thank you to seokwoo for being [boyfriends](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/b9/9f/97/b99f97949958a3a8768183635724a631.jpg) ♡
> 
> fashcndy: dongsaengs #1 and #2 had to put up with a lot of my whining so i thank them. also, this au Changed me. shout out to the light of my life, soonyoung and my sonshine, seokmin (and wonwoo).
> 
> girltalk: this is our baby and we raised it lovingly on a diet of friendship purée and magic milk ♡ ty to my sweet teammates for working so hard and making up where i slacked /o\

If Wonwoo had to describe London in one word, it'd be _big_. He’d only arrived at Soonyoung’s place—a three storey Victorian house squashed between two skyscrapers near the Thames—last night but he feels the grit and hubbub of the monolith city sinking back into his bones already. These feelings aren’t unfamiliar by any means, just unwelcome. Wonwoo likes the oxygen that seeps out of the ancient trees in his Cheshire backyard, or deep within the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts. He thrives on tranquility. 

He doesn’t like being crammed into a glass capsule 443 ft in the sky, all in the name of _experiencing a Muggle’s London_.

“Are you okay?” Soonyoung says, nudging Wonwoo’s arm. Wonwoo takes a shuddering breath, stumbling a fraction even though Soonyoung had barely touched him. 

“I really,” Wonwoo squeaks, “don't like heights.”

“You don't fly, boy?” Mr Kwon asks, from across the capsule, his nose stuck in a London Eye tourist brochure.

“I don't fly.” Wonwoo’s fairly sure the blood has drained out of his face. 

Soonyoung pokes a finger into his cheek, muttering, “Wow, you’re white as a sheet,” but Wonwoo doesn’t hear him; he’s in his first Flying class again, trying to follow along to the chorus of _up’s_ from his classmates around him. Madam Moonshine is saying something about gripping their brooms tight so they don’t slide off the end when they kick off from the ground. Wonwoo _does_ slide off the end, and after a broken arm, his first trip to the Hospital Wing, and being called Chicken Boy (“Get it, because chickens can’t fly!”) every damn day for an entire year, Wonwoo decides he’s never willingly mounting a broom ever again.

Which is why he, someone who finds flying dreadfully overrated, has no idea why he accepted Soonyoung’s invitation to attend the Quidditch World Cup Final. Soonyoung was given two extra tickets as a gift for being appointed Gryffindor’s Head Boy by his father, the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Soonyoung told Wonwoo that he’d asked Seungkwan Boo from the year below first, but Seungkwan cancelled last minute, citing _You-Know-Who_ and _moral support_ as reasons for accompanying Hansol Choi and by extension, Chan Lee instead. 

“He’s still going to be in the Top Box with us,” Soonyoung says the next day, rolling his eyes, “But you know how those three are. Anyway,”—he slings his arm across Wonwoo’s shoulders—“I’m glad I asked you instead.”

Wonwoo is probably not the most exciting of companions Soonyoung could’ve brought along, but he thanks Soonyoung again for asking him. Despite Wonwoo’s complete apathy towards Quidditch, and barely having stopped himself from puking on the London Eye yesterday, Wonwoo doesn’t regret saying yes. This is probably the most fun he’ll have all summer.

It’s currently half past five in the morning, entirely too early for anyone to be up and about on a Saturday—which is the reason why they’re walking briskly through the streets of London, _again_ , making their way to one of the many Portkeys set up to transport them to the campsite. At this time, there are barely any Muggles around to see a bunch of wizards and witches inexplicably disappear into thin air.

At breakfast, Wonwoo had asked Soonyoung’s father what it was like to travel via Portkey. Wonwoo knew of them, sure, but being so used to public transport—the _Muggle_ kind, not the Knight Bus he’d once read about in a book—the thought didn’t always occur to Wonwoo that he could, you know, magic himself places.

“You’ll be fine,” Mr Kwon reassures him, through a mouthful of bacon, “It’s a bit like cleaning out your belly button, the feeling.”

Wonwoo frowns, fingers absentmindedly trailing over his abdomen to ghost around his navel. That doesn’t tell him much. 

“I don’t want to scare you, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung’s voice comes from the stairwell. He scrubs a hand over his face as he walks to the kitchen table. His hair is sticking up in every direction and the buttons on his silk pyjamas are unsymmetrical. “But it definitely does _not_ feel like that. You’ll see. Anyway, where are the girls?” He points the buttered toast he picked up at his youngest sister, who’d opened her mouth to speak. “Not you, Junyoung, the others.”

“Oh, they’re Apparating,” Mr Kwon says cheerily. “They’re sleeping in now because they can just head straight to the grounds from here.”

Soonyoung’s face goes dark. “Is that so?” he drawls, plonking down next to Wonwoo. “I can’t wait to pass my test this year, it’s so _unfair_. You taking the test, Wonwoo?”

“Probably not,” Wonwoo answers. “Got more important things to worry about this year.”

Mr Kwon nods contemplatively. He then jabs his thumb at Soonyoung, who’d been groaning at Wonwoo to stop bringing up school. “I don’t know why he’s dead set on Apparition when he’ll probably end up splinching himself.”

Soonyoung winces. Junyoung slowly puts her toast back on her plate and pushes it away. Wonwoo sips on his milk tea, and hums. 

“Last week, one of the chaps at Magical Transportation told me they had to fine _three_ teenagers who’d left half of themselves behind because they tried to Apparate without knowing how to. Seems like they let anybody pass the test these days,” Mr Kwon tells them.

Soonyoung perks up. “So that means my chances are higher?”

“That’s the spirit,” Wonwoo says, laughing. The conversation is then steered elsewhere when Junyoung tugs on his baggy sleeve and asks if she may show him her photobook of Taeyong Lee, Bulgaria’s seeker.

So, they’re on the way to a Portkey, and Wonwoo is a bundle of nerves. He’d be happy just taking the train, honestly, but Soonyoung _insisted_. “If I have to suffer, you have to suffer with me,” Soonyoung says, pacing himself beside Wonwoo. They’re walking a good few metres behind Soonyoung’s family, less for privacy and more as an act of charity towards Wonwoo—saving him from continuing the conversation about Taeyong that Junyoung had persisted in dragging him into after breakfast.

“Plus, you’ll never get there in time,” Soonyoung continues. “This is going to be one hell of a game, you don’t wanna miss it. I’m placing my bets on Ireland, don’t look at me like that, it’s not just ‘cause I’m Irish. They slaughtered Peru in the semifinals, right, Dad?”

“Right,” Mr Kwon shouts back. “Bulgaria has Lee, but we’ve got an entire team of winners.” 

“Seokmin’s rooting for Bulgaria,” Soonyoung tells Wonwoo. He jiggles the arm he has hooked around Wonwoo’s, whining, “He betrayed me, Wonwoo.”

“Seokmin’s going?” Wonwoo says. Whenever he has the chance to talk to Soonyoung at school, it’s always _Seokmin this_ , _Seokmin that_ , but Soonyoung hadn’t breathed a word about his best friend since Wonwoo arrived at his place. 

Wonwoo has spoken to Seokmin Lee a total of five times since they’d entered Hogwarts in the same year, the first of which was a stilted conversation about _The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle_ on the way to the Hospital Wing when Wonwoo broke his arm in Flying. They'd only continued their Mad Muggle discussion last year when Seokmin visited Wonwoo at the Hospital Wing after he sent a Bludger hurtling in Wonwoo's direction at a Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff game (Seokmin had brought him a bouquet of flowers, sickly sweet-smelling ones he'd clearly conjured up because they learnt how to only the week before in Transfiguration, and Wonwoo had taken them with grace, and an embarrassed, “Thanks, but it was only a small bruise.” Seokmin was shooed off by the nurse not two minutes after he’d stopped by, because it _really_ wasn’t that serious, and he was being a little too emphatic about how Martin Miggs was more than just comic relief.) 

In retrospect, he should’ve expected the third ticket to have gone to Seokmin. He and Soonyoung _are_ best friends. “Right. ‘Course he is,” Wonwoo adds.

“What, you don’t like Seokmin?” Soonyoung asks, pouting.

“Don’t know him well, is all,” Wonwoo laughs, shaking his head.

Soonyoung hums. “Weird, he said you were really cool when I told him you were coming. You had Transfiguration together last year, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo replies. Besides, he guesses, accepting Seokmin’s flowers, he doesn’t remember doing anything worth gushing over. Seokmin must say that about everyone. He was being polite.

“In any case, you’ve got aaaaaall of World Cup to get to know each other.”

“Looking forward to it,” Wonwoo says, in as enthusiastic a tone as he can manage at the prospect of being a third wheel in a friendship that’d blossomed without him. He met Soonyoung, and Mingyu, in a carriage on the Hogwart’s Express six years ago. They hit it off straight away but later, at the Sorting Ceremony, so did Soonyoung and Seokmin. Wonwoo never held a grudge, not when he had Mingyu, and not when Soonyoung and Seokmin were so attached to the hip it was like they were meant to be. But without a single owl from Mingyu all summer, and Soonyoung having reached out to him with a World Cup invitation, albeit as a second choice, Wonwoo can't help but wonder what it would've been like had he and Soonyoung become best friends too.

Up ahead, the Kwons take a left turn down an alleyway running along the side of what looks like a nightclub. The neon sign reading _EQUINOX_ across the top of the building is grey and grimy in the watery daylight. Laughter spills out from the alleyway, along with a Seokmin Lee yelling, “No way! Have you got it with you?!”

When Wonwoo and Soonyoung round the corner, Junyoung is showing Seokmin her Taeyong photobook. The expression on Seokmin’s face is one of sincere interest, unlike Wonwoo’s had been this morning. Seokmin glances up when Soonyoung calls out his name, the grin on his face growing.

“Good morning,” Seokmin says, as Soonyoung hip-checks him in greeting. He gives Wonwoo a small smile. “Excited?”

Wonwoo tugs on the end of his knitted scarf, nodding. “I’m sure it’ll be an experience.”

Soonyoung rolls his eyes, and laughs. “He’s excited.”

The Kwons, and a man who must be Seokmin’s father (“This is my dad!” Seokmin announces), have circled around a faded red stiletto next to the dumpsters lining the end of the alleyway. “It’s the Portkey,” Soonyoung explains. He then gags from the smell that wafts their way. “Can we get out of here? This place is giving me hives.”

“Let’s,” Seokmin’s father agrees, checking his watch. “It’s almost time.”

Wonwoo hesitates to place his hand on the stiletto like everyone else. Squeezed in next to him, Seokmin nudges Wonwoo’s shoulder with his own, and whispers, “Go for it.”

“Alright,” Wonwoo breathes. He stretches out his hand.

There’s no warning. The second his fingers grip the ratty sides of the stiletto, a sensation unlike anything he’s ever felt suddenly overwhelms him. There is the vague recognition of movement, the flash of Seokmin’s teeth in his peripherals, and a tingling feeling in the centre of his core, as though someone is plucking every nerve in his body like piano strings.

 

 

“Quarter to six from Soho!” 

Wonwoo groans, a sound immediately echoed from the mass of limbs beneath him that make up Soonyoung. There’s a slight ache right beneath his left eyebrow and his stomach belatedly lurches. Wonwoo spends a few moments breathing in the cool morning air, waiting for it to settle his motion sickness before finally opening his eyes. Slowly, he acclimates himself to his surroundings; a foggy moor stretches across his vision, and then, the unmistakable shape of Seokmin’s head resting on his thigh, dangerously close to Wonwoo’s crotch.

Before Wonwoo has a chance to make it weird, Seokmin pushes himself upright, bouncing on his feet like he’s making sure they still work. He smiles and offers a hand to Wonwoo, who takes it carefully and gives Seokmin an awkward grin of his own, one that lingers unsurely on his face even after he’s standing and Seokmin turns away. Soonyoung remains motionless, lying face-first on the grass, and the defeated whimper he emits when Seokmin kicks him unceremoniously in the ribs makes it clear that he’s not planning on going anywhere soon. 

“Come on Soonyoung,” Seokmin says, bending down to ruffle the hair on the back of his head. “Don’t be such a pansy.” 

Soonyoung rolls onto his back like a soldier who’s just been shot. “I fucking hate Portkeys,” he croaks, face pale. 

From behind them, Mr. Kwon laughs. “Never been good with travelling that one,” he says. “Used to have snot dribbling down his face every time we had to Floo somewhere, crying _’Appa, can’t I just fly there on my broom instead!’_ ”

“No one’s good with having their insides yanked to the depths of hell,” Soonyoung grouses, an arm around Wonwoo and Seokmin each as they help him up. “No one.”

Fortunately, once they’re past the gates of the camping grounds, Soonyoung seems to be in good spirits again. When Mr. Kwon had retrieved their reservation details, Wonwoo noted the dreamy gaze worn by the Muggle gatekeeper and realised he must’ve been cast with a memory modification spell. Walking through the numerous tents set up now, half of them with chimneys attached, Wonwoo understands why. But he’s hardly surprised, six years at Hogwarts have taught Wonwoo that ostentation comes as naturally to Wizards as magic does. 

Because Soonyoung is an _adult_ , a fact he was fond of emphasising, he, Wonwoo, and Seokmin were given a tent of their own. Soonyoung refuses to use magic to build the tent, insisting that if they were going to pose as Muggles, they should do so with authenticity. He then forces Seokmin to do it, since apparently he had spent summers as a child camping in the English countryside. 

“I once told him that I went on an excursion to a cheese factory in Somerset when I was five,” Seokmin grumbles when Wonwoo has to intervene thirty minutes in, helping Seokmin out of the half of the tent that had collapsed on him. 

“When I was five I lived in Ireland,” Soonyoung says nostalgically, lying on the grass a few meters away from where Wonwoo and Seokmin are doing their labour. “And now my homeland is going to win the Quidditch World Cup.”

“You were _four_ when you lived in Ireland,” Seokmin corrects, “And if you keep saying that you’re going to jinx it. Bulgaria are in top form now, isn’t that right, Wonwoo?” 

Wonwoo blinks. “Um…” 

“Oh, don’t do that to Wonwoo, he doesn’t know the first thing about Quidditch,” Soonyoung says. 

Wonwoo offers a meagre answer to Seokmin’s question anyway, some piece of trivia he’d snatched from the Kwons’ breakfast conversation for future small-talk use. “I mean, Bulgaria benefitted from easy match-ups, right?” 

Seokmin shoots Soonyoung a smug grin and Soonyoung sticks his tongue out at him. “He basically said Bulgaria’s lucked their way to the finals, you dimwit,” Soonyoung points out.

Seokmin smiles at Wonwoo as he says, shrugging, “Whatever gets you to the end.”

 

 

The trek up to the Top Box is so mind-numbingly terrifying Wonwoo has to wonder if Soonyoung secretly hates him and/or is trying to scare him to death. The flights of stairs are seemingly never-ending, the metal grates underneath the purple carpeting of each step giving the impression of a flimsiness that makes the Hogwarts staircases seem like a childrens’ bouncy castle in comparison. Wonwoo wishes he were at Hogwarts. Sure, the stairs _move_ but he’d take them over this any day.

“Christ,” Soonyoung yells, “We’re nearly in the sky!” 

The crowd is at a fever pitch. A breathless exhilaration sets up camp beside the fear inside Wonwoo when he chances a peek to his left. He is met with the sight of a stadium bathed in golden light, purple fireworks bursting in succession across his line of vision. Wonwoo feels them in his chest.

Soonyoung reaches over to grab one of the enchanted lanterns suspended just past the railing of each level, and twists back to hand it to Wonwoo. Wonwoo hurriedly grasps the curly ribbon attached to the lantern, and not knowing what to do with it when he needs _both_ hands to hold the railing, stuffs it between his teeth. Soonyoung grins, and says, “Best you don’t look down, eh?”

On impulse, Wonwoo’s gaze flickers down—his stomach drops a metre and turns into lead, and his knees nearly give out. Before his mind can begin to estimate how long it would take his body to hit the green and splatter like the yolk on Mrs Kwon’s sunny side up, there’s a hand at his elbow, drawing him away from the railing and thoughts of a gruesome death.

“Here Lies Wonwoo,” Wonwoo mutters to himself. The lantern floats out of his mouth, hitting the row of seats above them. “He was gone too soon.”

Behind him, Seokmin sing-songs, “Aren’t I your knight in shining armour, Wonwoo?” His fist curls around the lantern ribbon as he passes it. 

Wonwoo doesn’t turn around to answer Seokmin, too scared to anyhow, but his mouth quirks in amusement. “Can you convince Soonyoung to let me bail and go back to the tent?” His voice is so muted he’s not sure if Seokmin had heard him, but the crowd rising up each level pauses to let around a dozen filter into their seats, and it turns out Seokmin is closer than Wonwoo had thought. Enough so that he can feel the heat Seokmin’s emanating, and strangely enough, Wonwoo wants to lean back into him. He’d been born and raised here, but his body never really managed to acclimate itself to the England cold. 

“Do you really wanna go back down?” Seokmin asks, laughing. His breath sweeps over Wonwoo’s ear, smelling faintly of the Cauldron cake he had earlier.

Wonwoo grumbles, “We can supposedly do anything with magic but we can’t have elevators?” He feels Seokmin’s fingers tie the ribbon around one of the belt loops on his jeans. He glances down to see Seokmin’s added a tiny lopsided bow-tie too.

“Awful, isn’t it?” Seokmin says. “Still, don’t I get anything for saving your life?”

Wonwoo frowns, craning his neck back to ask, admonishing, _are you flirting with me?_ but the words stick in his throat. Seokmin is grinning at him, all sincere. “Uh,” Wonwoo stutters. He smiles weakly. “I’ll think of something great.”

For the next four levels until Mr Kwon has to make a stop past the Minister’s Box, Seokmin’s palms hover around Wonwoo’s waist. He’s barely touching, and somehow that’s worse; Wonwoo’s skin tingles with the proximity. He stumbles into the Minister’s Box after Soonyoung, thankful for the open space, even if they’re only here for a moment.

Soonyoung points out the man his father shakes hands with as Bulgaria’s coach, Yeongsuk Jung. Wonwoo recognises the Minister. The third person in the Box is a guy standing behind the coach, hand at Yeongsuk’s elbow and the impatient look of a kid who wants their parents to stop prolonging small talk on his face. He looks around their age, tall and generically handsome. Not really Wonwoo’s type, but he can appreciate, especially when the guy looks over at them and breaks into a smile that softens his features. He shrugs, as if to say _parents, you know?_

There’s a small pained noise next to him. Wonwoo glances sideways to see Seokmin beet red in the face, staring holes into the rug.

Wonwoo isn’t the only one who noticed Seokmin’s flustered reaction. As they’re making the rest of the journey up to the Top Box, Soonyoung elbows Seokmin in the side, wagging his eyebrows and giving him a cheeky grin. “Fancy the coach’s son, do you?” 

Almost instantly, Seokmin goes red. “N-no!” he stammers, “I just think he’s—well, he’s quite fit isn’t he?”

“Well, once Ireland wipes the floor with his Father’s team, you can seduce him under the guise of comfort.” 

“He’s got a _dimple_ , Soonyoung!” Seokmin whines. Then, he grumbles, “You know, when Ireland loses it’ll be all your fault.”

Ireland does not end up losing. Taeyong catches the snitch, but the game goes in Ireland’s favour 110 to 100. Soonyoung jumps up in his seat, mouth wide open. Wonwoo would guess he’s screaming, but half the stadium is yelling in celebration and Soonyoung’s voice is lost amongst the roars. 

To the left of Soonyoung, Seokmin slumps in his seat. Wonwoo catches his eye, offering a sympathetic shrug of his shoulder. Seokmin jerks his thumb at Soonyoung, and says something Wonwoo isn’t able to hear. Wonwoo leans forward, and Seokmin tugs him closer by the scarf wound around his neck, Wonwoo almost losing his balance, so he can say, “We're not gonna be able to get him to shut up for the next week.”

Soonyoung makes a move to sit down, and Wonwoo lurches back. Immediately, he’s pulled in again, Soonyoung’s arm snaking around his and Seokmin’s necks. Soonyoung pats Seokmin’s head, smiling down at the both of them, before announcing, “What do you say we get smashed, boys?”

 

 

Their tent isn’t exactly what Wonwoo would define as a tent, but then, that goes for most things in the Wizarding World. The exterior is unassuming, made out of a beige-coloured canvas, and about the size of a regular two-person camping tent. Inside however is a living room, large enough to fit the cluster of couches and beanbags around a crackling fireplace; a couple steps leading down to a sleeping area which consists of three beds and a hammock overlooking the moor and the foggy woods beyond it. There’s a tiny kitchen they probably won’t use, and a door leading off into a bathroom. The colour scheme is warm and earthy, much like the Hufflepuff common room, Seokmin had pointed out when they first walked in. 

Another thing the tent happens to stock is a wine rack, hidden by a Concealment charm Soonyoung had hastily casted when Mr Kwon walked in that afternoon to collect them. He’d done such a poor job that the rack shimmers in and out of view every few minutes.

“I’m telling you,” Soonyoung says as they enter the tent, “It’s my lucky year.”

“‘Twas the leprechauns, my friend,” Seokmin drawls, stretching out to ruffle Soonyoung’s hair.

Soonyoung ducks out from Seokmin’s reach, making his way over to the kitchen. He pulls out a bottle of champagne, inspecting the label. “Either of you know how to open one of these?”

It’s after a fruitless search for a corkscrew that the three of them remember wait, they’re wizards, they’ve got magic. As the tent’s resident Ravenclaw, Wonwoo feels sort of sheepish he hadn't thought up a spell in the first place, given he has a number of suitable ones memorised already, but some habits are hard to shake: his mind will always think first of the Muggle solution, and _then_ , the Wizard equivalent. 

In the end it’s Seokmin who places the bottle on the kitchen counter and points his wand at it. It’s a willow wand, and he holds it tight with his fist as though trying to keep it under control. His grip is similar to Wonwoo's, and Wonwoo surmises that the core of his wand is Veela hair too. Veela hair makes for a temperamental and unpredictable wand, and for Wonwoo, it’d resulted in one too many accidents (there was the time he’d jinxed Mingyu’s entire head of hair off when trying to turn a frog into a teacup in Transfiguration. Later, Wonwoo had gotten him a bag of nougat chunks from Honeydukes as an apology. He’d felt mildly terrible about the resultant feud between Mingyu and a popular Slytherin, Minghao Xu, when Mingyu was stuck next to the kid in the Hospital Wing for two hours until they were both kicked out) before he managed to get the hang of the thing in his fourth year.

So when Seokmin recites the incantation with a flick of his wrist, it only makes sense for the cork to fly out of the champagne bottle with a flash of orange light and a loud _pop_ , ricochet off the wall next to the fireplace and then land smackbang in the centre of Wonwoo’s forehead. Seokmin is already rushing over and apologising by the time Wonwoo registers what had happened. He groans, sinking further into the beanbag he’d been sitting on. He bats Seokmin's hand away when Seokmin tries to inspect the bump on his forehead. It's throbbing like mad, and there's a blush creeping along Wonwoo's neck, and he’d just rather be left alone, and given some ice if possible. From the kitchen he can hear Soonyoung cackling, and the fizz of him pouring them drinks. 

Wonwoo sits up, shaking his head. “Don’t worry,” he tells Seokmin, smiling a little, “At least it wasn’t a Bludger this time.”

Seokmin’s eyes widen and he shoves at Wonwoo’s shoulder, pushing himself up so he can flop onto one of the arm chairs. “That was an accident,” he retorts, his tone bordering on whiny.

Three glasses of champagne float over Wonwoo’s head to land on the coffee table, one tipping over precariously before righting itself. They are followed by more alcohol and a Soonyoung who collapses into a beanbag and says, “It took him three tries to get those flowers right. He was on the verge of tears, especially ‘cause we crushed Hufflepuff in the game.”

In response, Seokmin downs half his champagne glass at once. Wonwoo quietly follows suit, after muttering a perfunctory, “You really didn't have to go through the trouble.”

Soonyoung seems to get the hint, eyes darting between them. Or maybe he’d been bursting to change the conversation topic anyway. “So, you know how I said it was my lucky year?” he says, leaning forward in his beanbag and gesticulating wildly with his hands. Consequently, Wonwoo gets splashed with champagne. He shuffles sideways, dabbing his face with the sleeve of his sweater. “Weeeeell, Ireland winning the World Cup was only the beginning.”

“Yeah?” says Seokmin, leaning over to pour himself another drink, knee braced on the coffee table. He gestures for Wonwoo to hand him his glass as well.

“Something _big_ is happening at Hogwarts this year,” Soonyoung elaborates, speaking slowly as if for suspense, “My dad told me all about it. I’ll give you a clue, he knows about it ‘cause of his job.”

“A game, then?” Wonwoo says, nodding at Seokmin in thanks. He has an inkling of a feeling he knows what Soonyoung is hinting at, something he’d read in _Hogwarts, A History_ a few years ago.

“Yes,” Soonyoung says, smirking. He flexes a bicep. “I've got my sights set on being Hogwarts’ Champion. Got a good feeling about this year.”

Seokmin laughs. “You sure that feeling isn't dread, Soonyoung?”

Soonyoung pulls a face. “Don't remind me. Still haven't got my school list yet…”

The banter continues like that for a while, loudly and mostly between Soonyoung and Seokmin, with Wonwoo listening and occasionally pitching in when he can. They're halfway through their second bottle of Beetle Berry Whiskey when Soonyoung gets called away by his oldest sister.

She takes one look at them, Soonyoung sprawled across Seokmin’s back, trying to grab the last sugar mouse out of Seokmin’s hand by clawing his forearm, and rolls her eyes. Wonwoo shrugs when Soonhee looks over at him. He’d long since stopped trying to calm the two of them down. They were like a pair of toddlers, squabbling in a made-up language, an incomprehensible string of inebriated noises amplified by the sugar high when Wonwoo bust out the overpriced lollies he bought at a cart outside the Quidditch stadium. Instead he’d sat back, nursing his Butterbeer, and watching the two of them like they were a television sitcom.

Soonyoung gives up on his quest for the sugar mouse when Seokmin drags the flat of his tongue from tail to head—though he looked like he’d considered eating it anyway—and stumbles to his feet. He shakes a finger at his sister. “If you don’t snitch, _I_ won’t tell Dad about the time you snuck out to see,” his voice goes squeaky, “Taehyun Nam. He’s a bad boy.”

“He’s not a bad boy. He just hasn’t got a trust fund. There’s a difference, Soonyoung,” Soonhee says, as she drags Soonyoung out of the tent by the ear.

The silence that permeates the air once they leave is awkward at best. Wonwoo’s body jerks slightly and unintentionally like it decided it needed to be anywhere but here without Wonwoo even thinking it himself. He glances over at Seokmin to see him sucking on the last remains of the sugar mouse, hands in his lap as his eyes roam around the tent. The only thing missing would be the sound of Seokmin whistling, but the folk tune someone’s playing on a guitar at one of the bonfires outside brings to fruition the entire picture; that he and Seokmin would probably not get to know each other over the World Cup like Soonyoung had hoped if Wonwoo did not say something to break the ice right at this very second.

“Do you play guitar?” Wonwoo blurts out.

Seokmin’s eyes slide over to regard Wonwoo, almost in slow motion. He shakes his head. “I sing though.”

What Wonwoo should say is something along the lines of _could you sing me something?_ but he figures Seokmin gets that a lot. He nods, instead, and replies, “I know. I’ve heard you in choir.” Technically, yes, Seokmin is in choir but that only means Wonwoo has never actually heard his voice alone. 

Seokmin seems to accept this answer regardless. “Does your forehead still hurt?” he asks. 

Wonwoo had forgotten about it. He brings his hand up to his head, and presses into the bump with his fingertips. It stings a little but the bruise has gone down significantly over the last couple of hours. “It’s fine,” he assures Seokmin, who nods, and cracks open another bottle of Beetle Berry Whiskey. 

Except it’s then that Wonwoo realises how stiff and achy his bones feel from sitting in the beanbag in the same general position for so long. He pushes himself up, arching his back slightly and sighing at the satisfying crack of his spine. Wonwoo stretches down to touch his toes, the world spinning before refocusing on the mess strewn across the coffee table and the floor underneath it. He frowns. “Seokmin,” he calls out, “Help me clean this up.”

Even without his partner in crime to enable him, Seokmin is a lazy slob of a drunk. Wonwoo is by no means as tidy as someone like Mingyu but there’s a line, and that line is red wine on a beige carpet and his mother grounding him for two whole weeks. _During summer_. 

Seokmin just sticks out his bottom lip, and grumbles, “Can’t we do it later?” 

Wonwoo, who’d made his way over to Seokmin’s side of the living room to pick up a trail of pumpkin fizz wrappers, is dragged down onto the armchair halfway on top of Seokmin by Seokmin’s ankle winding around his leg. “Oh my god,” Wonwoo mutters, shuffling off the rest of Seokmin’s lap. It’s a tight squeeze but if Seokmin wants him to sit here he’d rather a centimetre of butt room than the possibility of bringing about a proximity boner. 

“I don’t know why I did that,” Seokmin says. He exhales noisily and Wonwoo can feel it on the back of his neck. 

Wonwoo takes the whiskey bottle out of Seokmin’s hand and takes a swig. Again, Seokmin feels like a human space heater and this time, with alcohol making him drowsy and touchier than usual, he doesn’t bother stopping himself from leaning into him. They sit like that for a while, Wonwoo’s head resting on Seokmin’s shoulder, and passing the bottle between them until they’ve consumed every last drop. Then Seokmin begins to run his finger around and around the rim of the bottle. 

“When do you think Soonyoung’s coming back?” Wonwoo finally says, at the same time Seokmin blurts out, “Can I ask you something?”

They laugh. Seokmin clears his throat, and tosses the bottle onto the rug. “Dunno, soon?”

“What did you want to ask me?” Wonwoo questions, sitting up.

“Um,” Seokmin starts, “Are you going out with Mingyu?”

Wonwoo blinks. “No, why would you think that?” he finally answers, slowly.

It seems as though Seokmin is deliberately avoiding eye contact with him, but in turn, he just ends up staring at Wonwoo’s mouth. Wonwoo smacks his lips, and Seokmin’s gaze snaps up. He looks dazed. “It’s just that—well, I've always wondered. You guys are really close.”

Wonwoo shakes his head, grimacing. “Nah. Like, would you ever want to date Soonyou—”

“Yes,” Seokmin says immediately. His face turns even redder, if possible, and he slurs his next words, “I—I mean, I wouldn’t be _opposed_ , you get confused growing up, alright? Don’t you like lots of people for the sake of liking them?”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “Not really.”

“He’s 99 percent straight, anyway,” Seokmin says. 

“What’s the one percent?”

Seokmin snorts. “His crush on Taemin Lee.” Taemin is the Chaser who’d scored the last goal for Ireland. With this new piece of information, Soonyoung squealing every time there was a close-up of Taemin on the widescreen makes a lot more sense. 

Wonwoo hums in response, and they fall silent again. He’s distantly contemplating getting another drink when Seokmin’s palm lands on his upper thigh, stiff and unmoving. Wonwoo looks up questioningly to see Seokmin’s staring at it, the expression on his face regretful.

“Seokmin,” Wonwoo says, placing his hand over Seokmin’s, “What are you doing?”

The lip Seokmin had been chewing on springs back. The air is strange, tense. There is, for some reason, a sickening scream outside. A shudder runs down Wonwoo’s spine.

“Did you think of something great?” Seokmin asks, his voice clearer than it’s been all night.

“Sorry?”

“Earlier you said you’d think of something great when I—”

“Oh, right,” Wonwoo interrupts. “Do you deserve anything after hitting me with that cork?”

“You’re right.” Seokmin nods seriously, and Wonwoo’s mind goes _cute_ , and Seokmin’s saying, “But can we kiss anyway?”

Apparently Wonwoo had taken a second too long to reply because Seokmin is already backtracking, “If you want, I mean, what else can we do until Soonyoung comes back?”

Wonwoo can think of a number of options, _sleep_ amongst them, but with Seokmin’s hand still on his thigh, warm and steadying, he realises there’s nothing he’d rather be doing than snogging Seokmin right now.

He stretches forward, cupping the side of Seokmin’s face, angling his head to press his mouth against Seokmin’s. Seokmin’s lips are a lot softer than his chapped ones, and it makes for a nice contrast. His hand gently squeezes Wonwoo’s leg as they make out. A balmy sense of drowsiness washes over Wonwoo, exhilaration fanning out beneath his ribcage like a sunflower.

And then two things happen at once: Seokmin’s tongue slips into Wonwoo’s mouth; and his hand slides up to grip his waist, startling Wonwoo into his losing his balance and finding himself on Seokmin’s lap again. He gasps, tightening his hold around Seokmin’s nape.

Wonwoo presses closer, at the same time Seokmin pulls back to take in a gulp of oxygen, and wipe the drool on his chin. He smiles, almost shyly, knocking his forehead against Wonwoo’s. “I’m so drunk right now,” he whispers.

“Me too,” Wonwoo says, laughing a little. There’s another shriek outside, followed by a couple more. From the bonfire, probably. He brushes his thumb over Seokmin’s cheekbone. “Please don’t stop.”

“Oh my god,” Seokmin mumbles under his breath. He sounds disbelieving, but mostly proud, and Wonwoo vaguely wonders if this is his first kiss. 

His first kiss, first _everything_ , had been Jeonghan Yoon during the Christmas of his sixth year, when they were stuck at Hogwarts after both their families had coincidentally decided to spend their holidays in warmer, sunnier places of the world. Wonwoo didn’t mind—he had an entire library of books to read and assignments to complete—but Jeonghan had been bored out of his mind. Though they barely knew each other, he roped Wonwoo, the only other upper year at the Castle, to get up to some fun. Jeonghan had gone on to apply for Auror training after graduating, and they haven’t talked since, the only reminder of their Christmas fling the Pavlovian hard-on Wonwoo gets anytime he’s near the Slytherin dorms now. 

Anyway, Wonwoo doesn’t get to ask because Seokmin pulls him in again, his palms cupping Wonwoo’s face this time. At this point, Wonwoo feels more magma than human, like he’s melting into Seokmin. He’s got a hand bunched around the collar of Seokmin’s Bulgaria sweatshirt, his legs now braced around either side of Seokmin’s stocky thighs, and if he just shuffled forward a little he could—

“What in the name of Merlin are you two doing?!” The air in the tent is thick as molasses and the voice that cuts through is screechy, and unmistakably belongs to Soonyoung. Instantly, Wonwoo is pushed off of Seokmin. He grunts, glaring up at Seokmin who sort of looks like he wants to cry or throw up. Wonwoo twists back to see Soonyoung standing in the entrance, the tent flaps swaying around him. The wind outside is whistling, snake-like, and it’s the only sound to be heard. Soonyoung’s face is void of any colour.

“We were—” Seokmin begins. Wonwoo can see him dig the heel of his palm into his crotch. 

“Nevermind that, we need to _leave_ ,” Soonyoung says, rushing forward to grab both of their wrists. “Quick, get your shoes on.” 

Wonwoo’s shoelaces are barely tied before Soonyoung is pulling them out of the tent, and whispering, “Look up.”

There in the sky, larger than the moon, and hissing at them with its forked, green tongue, is the Dark Mark.


	2. sorting hat, fancy dress, all aboard the hogwarts express

Everything that happens afterwards is a blur. Wonwoo doesn’t have a chance to process it all until he’s on a train back home, Selina Sapworthy’s _Winogrand’s Wondrous Water Plants_ in his lap. After the Dark Mark had been cast, the camping grounds were quickly emptied and the rest of the World Cup was cancelled (“Well,” Soonyoung announces, “You-Know-Who couldn’t stop Ireland from winning the World Cup! We’re invincible!”). The identity of the perpetrator was still unknown but Wonwoo had heard from Soonyoung who heard from Seungkwan who was on the scene, of course, that the voice had been of a man’s, which wasn’t much help at all. 

Soonyoung wanted Wonwoo to go back to his place in London like they’d originally planned to after the World Cup. From there, Wonwoo would’ve headed straight to Hogwarts and met up with his family at King’s Cross. But after what happened at the camp, his parents wanted him back home, even if he’d only be there for a week. Understandably, they were worried—they’d witnessed the First Wizarding War together. It was a point in time that’d made his dad’s magical identity an almost impossible secret to keep from his Muggle girlfriend, Wonwoo’s mother. His one-bedroom house in Ottery St Catchpole was demolished by a giant and he had to show up at her doorstep with only his wand, the clothes on his back, and the groceries he’d popped out to buy. It’s a story Wonwoo’s father is fond of telling at every Christmas dinner. 

The other reason why Wonwoo chose to turn down Soonyoung’s offer was the fact that Seokmin was staying at the Kwons with his father for a couple nights before they headed back home. Seeing the Dark Mark floating in the sky, knowing someone had casted it _while_ they were inside a tent sucking face, had been the equivalent of ten cold showers. What happened between him and Seokmin felt like a dream. The pinch came in the form of Seokmin avoiding eye contact with him until he and Soonyoung were seeing Wonwoo off at the train station, where Seokmin waved at him through the window, and yelled out a muted, “Bye!” And it hurt, a little, but what could be done? The kiss was hot, it could’ve gone somewhere but it didn’t, no thanks to You-Know-Who, and now the two of them, plus Soonyoung, will probably go back to their respective status quos at Hogwarts, like Wonwoo and Jeonghan had done last year. That was that.

When the train makes its stop in Holmes Chapel, Wonwoo stuffs the book into his backpack, having only gotten through two pages of it because his eyes kept reading the line _Gillyweed is often likened to a bundle of slimy greyish-green rat tails_ over and over again. He hooks his backpack over his shoulder and pulls his small suitcase from the compartment overhead.

As Wonwoo steps onto the platform, he is immediately greeted with a loud, prepubescent-sounding, “Yo, Wonwoo!” from his younger brother, Bohyuk. Bohyuk is standing between his parents, waving fervently at Wonwoo. He’s got a slushie in his hand, his mouth a bright blue. “Did you get recruited by the Death Eaters?” he asks once Wonwoo’s reached them.

“Yup, and you’re next, Bohyuk,” his dad says. He takes Wonwoo’s suitcase from him, giving him a side hug. “Really, though, are you okay?”

Wonwoo laughs. “I was in the tent for most of it, I had no idea what was going on,” he says, pecking his mother on the cheek. She smiles, rolling her eyes as she ruffles a scowling Bohyuk’s hair. 

“I bet you were just having a kip,” Bohyuk says.

Wonwoo hesitates, before replying, “Yeah. That’s what I was doing.”

“Could sleep through a meteor hitting Earth, this one,” his mum mutters under her breath as she slips into the passenger seat of their car, ignoring Bohyuk chanting, “Shotgun, shotgun, Muuuuuuum, I called shotgun!”

The drive is only around five minutes in total, and Wonwoo spends it recounting the Bulgaria vs Ireland match to Bohyuk, who protests at Wonwoo’s Quidditch descriptions (“So, then Taeyong Lee caught the golden ball thingy with the wings?”

Bohyuk strains against his seatbelt to whack Wonwoo’s arm. “You _know_ it’s called a Snitch.”) Their house is a two-storey cottage on the outskirts of the countryside. The front yard is a mess of ceramic garden gnomes and grass that goes past their ankles and Wonwoo and Bohyuk’s rusty bikes, amongst other trip hazards. Wonwoo has long since grown accustomed to the safest route through the yard: three steps on the stone path, hop over the one that has collapsed in, through the grass when the path stops, miss the overgrowth of nettle Wonwoo hadn’t gotten around to weeding over the summer, over the hose, back onto the path, around the pot plants, and then onto the porch. 

“We should tidy this place up, huh?” Wonwoo’s mother says at the front door, a hand on her hip as she scans the front yard.

“You say that every time, Mum,” Bohyuk remarks. He ducks behind her, following their father into the house.

“Ah, what a brat,” his mum says. She disappears into the house, calling out, “Wonwoo, check the kitchen counter.”

Wonwoo toes off his shoes, and wanders into the kitchen. On the countertop is the usual envelope from Hogwarts with their school list, thicker than usual because, undoubtedly, they need more things in their final year. Underneath it is a smaller envelope. The name on the back is of Wonwoo’s Herbology professor, Doris Dahlia. He turns it over, thumb brushing over the _Wonwoo Jeon_ on the front in Professor Dahlia’s swirly script, before tearing it open.

His father enters the kitchen, turning on the kettle. Bokju, Wonwoo’s pet cat, is hot on his heels. She pauses, sniffing the air. Realising Wonwoo is there, she rushes over to him, almost slipping on the tiles in her haste, and curls around his ankles. “Tea?” Wonwoo’s father asks. He nods at the letter in Wonwoo’s hand. “What’s it say?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Wonwoo replies, bending down to scoop Bokju up into his arm. He clears his throat. “Um, _Dear Wonwoo, you have shown exceptional proficiency in the area of Herbology. I have sincerely enjoyed teaching you and watching you excel over the years. You bring something new to every class, things that even I have never learnt—_ ”

“—no doubt you do with your nose stuck in a book all the time—”

“ _—and I would like to take this opportunity to ask you to be my assistant over the course of your seventh year. As you may know, this has been an ongoing tradition of mine, and always a learning experience for the students I choose, beyond what they are taught in class. I would be delighted if you accepted my offer. Yours truly, Professor Dahlia._ ” Once he’s done reading the letter, Wonwoo looks up, mouth widening in a sheepish grin.

His father whistles. He’s grinning too. “Well done, son. You’re going to say yes, aren’t you? You didn’t spend the whole summer hacking up my garden to turn down an opportunity like that.”

“ _Yes_ , Dad,” Wonwoo says. He stuffs his face into Bokju’s abdomen, his next words muffled by her sleek black fur, “I’m gonna say yes.”

“Good,” his dad states, “Go tell your mother then. This calls for tea.”

Wonwoo snorts, and lets Bokju down when she starts to struggle in his grip, already sick of his smothering after barely five minutes of him being home again. “Dad, everything calls for tea.”

 

 

Wonwoo flops onto his bed with a yawn, the long scroll of his school list in his hands. His bedroom is a painted in a shade of lemon yellow, a light breeze through the open window making the sheer curtains fly up over his chest of drawers. Against one wall is his study desk and bookshelf, packed to the brim with Penguin Classics, Agatha Christie novels, every textbook he’s accumulated over the years, and Argo Pyrites’ _Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science_ which is two years overdue. He should probably put that in his trunk to return to Hogwarts’ library. He never even ended up taking Alchemy. The bedroom is more lived-in than it usually is over the school year because Wonwoo’s been here during the summer. He likes to see it like this; something in his chest aches coming home to a spotless bedroom, everything so in its place that it’s out of its place. It’s hard, sometimes, knowing where to call home.

Holmes Chapel is a predominantly Muggle town. The only other wizarding family living here are the Minatozakis on the other side of town. Their youngest daughter, Sana, is a Hufflepuff in the same year level as Wonwoo. Nowadays their social circles rarely overlap, but they’d spent the few years before turning eleven playing together in the playground at the Muggle primary school, in awe of their emerging magical abilities. 

The primary school is down the road from the bookshop Wonwoo’s parents own. His love of books didn’t spring out of thin air. Though his dad likes to joke about him having taking the ‘bookworm’ nickname he was given in kindergarten too far, he _had_ made Wonwoo sit with him through entire workdays and stock books from A through Z anytime Wonwoo would complain about being bored during the holidays. Wonwoo’s surprised he didn’t grow up _hating_ books. 

Although he doesn’t hate books, Wonwoo thinks he could after reading through the school list for this year. He is taking five subjects for his N.E.W.Ts, which is the least he’s ever done in his entire time at Hogwarts. But that only means the workload will increase tenfold (and judging by the amount of readings, it already has.) He's already dreading the trip to Diagon Alley. To think the place once filled him with joy.

Bokju seems to sense Wonwoo’s trepidation from wherever she’d been in the house. She ambles into his bedroom, hopping onto the duvet and stretching out across his stomach. “Bokju,” Wonwoo grouses, “Should I drop out of school and become a cat Animagus? We could get married.”

Bokju grizzles. Her tail wraps around Wonwoo’s wrist.

“You’re right,” Wonwoo says, crinkling his nose. “That’d be weird.” He goes back to rereading the school list, belatedly noticing a more unusual addition to the uniform section: _Dress robes_. He frowns, inhaling so he can bellow, “Muuuuuum!” 

“What?” his mother yells back. From the distance of her voice, she’s probably down the hall in Bohyuk’s room.

“I need to ask you a question!”

“Ask me from there!” Ten seconds later, when Wonwoo doesn’t reply, she makes her way to Wonwoo’s room, slippers thwacking against the floorboards. She pokes her head around Wonwoo’s door frame, giving him an unimpressed look. “Yeah?”

“Do you know why I need to bring dress robes this year?”

“Graduation, maybe? Bohyuk doesn’t have dress robes on his school list.”

“Right,” Wonwoo says, clicking his fingers. “That’s probably it.”

“I’ll talk to your Dad about giving you a bit of extra money so we can get you something nice. Sound good?”

Immediately, they are met with the sound of Bohyuk bounding down the hallway, huffing as he rounds the corner into Wonwoo’s room, as though he has a radar for unequal sibling treatment (“I get it, life isn’t fair!” a four-year-old Bohyuk had grumbled after Wonwoo received his Hogwarts acceptance letter. No matter how many times the system was explained to him, Bohyuk could not accept the fact that he had to wait seven years to go to Hogwarts). “Can I get dress robes too?” he asks, eagerly.

Their mother clucks her tongue. “Nuh uh. If it’s not on your school list, you’re not getting it.”

Bohyuk frowns, but swallows down his retort, if only because Wonwoo had explained to him the other week that although he was happy Bohyuk was starting his first year, this was also an important year for him and he didn’t want Bohyuk throwing tantrums outside Potions or whatever. Bohyuk had nodded seriously, sounding only slightly offended that Wonwoo basically implied he’s a big baby as he pinky promised Wonwoo and told him he’d be on his best behaviour (“What could I possibly do?” Bohyuk asked, batting his eyelashes, and Wonwoo had to refrain from opening a scroll to answer that question). Wonwoo is sure he will be, at least for this year, but after Wonwoo graduates... Well, he wishes luck to the Head of whichever House Bohyuk ends up in. 

“I’m still getting a broom, aren’t I?” Bohyuk asks. Wonwoo swears his eyes practically sparkle with the idea of getting a _real_ broom. Their father had gotten him a tiny model that only hovered a foot above the air for his fifth birthday, and Bohyuk was only allowed to ride it behind the hill near their house, at sundown so no Muggles would see him. “And an owl?”

“Sure you don’t want a cat?” Wonwoo asks, lifting up an unamused Bokju. “I think a toad might suit you, Bohyuk!” he calls out as Bohyuk stomps back down the hall. 

“Thanks, but no thanks!” Bohyuk yells back.

Wonwoo chuckles. The sound turns into a yelp when Bokju digs her claws into his stomach and leaps off his bed. He rolls up the school list and settles into his bed for a quick nap.

 

 

The Jeon family’s heartfelt tradition of seeing Wonwoo off at platform nine and three quarters had lasted all the way to the beginning of third year. It was an unsatisfying end, involving Bokju breaking all the alarm clocks the night before, which would have been disastrous had Wonwoo not been the kind of person who slept at 9PM and woke at 6:30AM simply in lieu of anything better to do. With the house in a panic, Wonwoo’s father had gotten in touch with a close relative living in London and Floo’d Wonwoo to his small, decrepit house in Enfield. From there Wonwoo caught a taxi to King’s Cross Station and boarded the train with only ten minutes to spare. 

In hindsight, Wonwoo realises he’d been quite lucky. Hansol and Chan hadn’t shared the same good fortune that year, and apparently they’d arrived so late that the platform had closed on them altogether. For a few weeks after there’d been gossip in the Gryffindor common room—of which Wonwoo was only privy to courtesy of Mingyu—that the two of them arrived in Hogwarts in a flying car that had crashed into the Whomping Willow. Wonwoo had made a displeased face at this, recalling that the Whomping Willow’s branches took five hundred years to fully heal. Mingyu hadn’t been quite so sympathetic towards the tree. 

But since that year, despite the extremely apologetic letter his mother sent for making him undergo the journey alone, the option of simply Floo-ing Wonwoo to London had presented itself as a lot more economical than the family embarking on a three hour road trip just to drop him off at the station. It wasn’t a big deal to either him or his parents. He’s sure his parents missed him, but Wonwoo wrote home regularly (more out of duty than sentimentality), and they’d had another son, a lot more extroverted, to keep them busy. And sure, sometimes Wonwoo felt a tug of longing when he’d watch the other parents drop their kids off at the platform, but that ended as soon as Mingyu draped an arm around his shoulders and reminded him that _“Hansol’s a bloody orphan. He doesn’t even have parents. Stay humble, Wonwoo.”_ Mingyu—whose parents were always too busy with one thing or the other to ever see him off, or even let Mingyu come home for Christmas holidays some years—was possibly projecting some. But Wonwoo was gracious enough to concede the point anyway. 

This year however, being Bohyuk’s first year at Hogwarts, his parents had decided to make an exception. Wonwoo was unceremoniously woken at 4:30AM, slept through an entire three hour car ride, _and_ the three hours after that, which his parents spent frantically ploughing through Diagon Alley. He only truly came back into the conscious world once he was already on the platform with Bohyuk standing next to him, struggling against the tight hug their mother had wrangled them both into. 

“Sit with your brother,” his mother had instructed Wonwoo, fetching a comb from her pocket and sweeping his fringe to the side. “I don’t want him to be lonely on his first day.”

It becomes apparent on the train however, that Bohyuk has absolutely no intentions of sitting in the same compartment as Wonwoo. “Don’t take this personally, Wonwoo,” he says, placing a hand on Wonwoo’s chest, which looks ridiculous because Bohyuk is a good thirty centimetres shorter than him. “I’m sure you’d rather sit with your friends as well. It’s just... your first journey on the Hogwarts Express, you know? The people I end up sitting with are going to be who I ride or die with for the rest of my schooling.”

“That’s not what happens in real life,” Wonwoo responds, ruffling Bohyuk’s hair and eliciting a scowl from him. He thinks back to his own first journey, when he sat with Mingyu and Soonyoung. He’s friends with Soonyoung sure, but not enough to have bothered to keep in contact with him since the Quidditch World Cup. Wonwoo isn’t quite sure what the protocol for that is. Did Soonyoung expect him to follow-up after the Dark Mark incident? More importantly, was _Seokmin_ expecting a follow up to what happened in the tent? Wonwoo had probably been hasty in assuming that they'd just go back to their own thing. He’d ask Mingyu, who he’s actually supposed to be ride or die with, for advice except they haven't properly spoken since last term. Maybe it’s Wonwoo that’s the problem. 

“I hope you find yourself in good company Bohyuk,” Wonwoo says absent-mindedly, but Bohyuk is already walking away from him, inspecting the compartment doors closely. He has Bokju’s carrier in his arms, having taken her off Wonwoo to use as an “icebreaker” (“I can talk about how ugly she is,” he’d explained in earnest. To Bohyuk’s disappointment, there hadn’t been any owls left that he “clicked with”, and so their mother had to promise him they would try again at Christmas. He’d already been bought a Nimbus 2001, or whatever was trendy these days, and frankly, Wonwoo thought he was way too spoilt. The school owls were perfectly functional). Wonwoo sighs and calls out, “Wherever you sit, make sure it’s not with Minghao Xu, or else Mingyu will flay me.” He pauses, considering. “Also, make sure you avoid Junhui Wen.”

Bohyuk pays him no mind, waving a hand in Wonwoo’s direction dismissively. “It’s too late, I’m already best friends with him.” Then he turns around and smirks. “My big brother, already in seventh year,” he says, wiping a non-existent tear from his eye. “They grow up so fast.”

Wonwoo sticks his tongue out. “Love you too, brat.”

 

 

Five minutes before they’re due to depart, Wonwoo has searched every carriage of the train for signs of Mingyu to no avail. He isn’t overly concerned. He’d spoken to Seungkwan, who’d assured Wonwoo that he definitely saw Mingyu on the platform this morning. But Mingyu’s disappearance does leave him feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious. They’d gone a whole summer with only one letter exchanged between them, but somehow not having Mingyu by his side at this very moment, chattering excitedly about Mordicus Egg’s latest Muggle cookbook while Wonwoo is only half-listening, adds another layer to the accidental radio silence of the last few months. 

“Wonwoo!” a familiar voice calls out, causing Wonwoo to jump, and almost bump into the passing trolley witch. He offers her a silent apology with his hands held out, and looks up to see Soonyoung’s torso sticking out from one of the compartments. 

Soonyoung waves, beckoning Wonwoo over. “Hey! Sit with us!”

There’s no elaboration as to who the _us_ is, which only leads Wonwoo to naturally conclude it’s referring to him and Seokmin. “Um...” Wonwoo begins. “I’m actually looking for Mingyu right now.”

Soonyoung huffs, stepping out into the hallway so he can stalk towards Wonwoo and grab his wrist. He’s wearing a black bomber jacket with the Ireland Quidditch team logo emblazoned on the front chest, which unwittingly takes Wonwoo back to the night after the final game. No, not to the chaos that emerged after the Dark Mark had been shot into the sky, the way a better prioritised person’s brain would work. But instead to the ambient lighting of their tent, and the way Seokmin’s tongue had tasted pressed against Wonwoo’s after being soaked in whiskey. 

Wonwoo doesn’t have time to disassociate himself from the memory before Soonyoung’s dragged him into his compartment, and the first thing Wonwoo’s eyes land on is the perfect cupid’s bow of Seokmin’s lip. He yanks his gaze back to take in the complete form of Seokmin. He’s sitting with a puke-coloured toad cupped in his hands, and staring up at Wonwoo with eyes peeled round as saucers. Wonwoo clears his throat. “Hello, Seokmin,” he says, tightening a fist when it comes out stilted. 

“Hello, Wonwoo,” Seokmin replies. He looks even more awkward than Wonwoo feels, eyes frantically roaming over Wonwoo’s face as if he’s not sure what feature would be appropriate to settle on. At the very least Wonwoo finds consolation in the fact that he will never, ever, show his discomfort as visibly as Seokmin does. 

Soonyoung is oblivious and manoeuvres around Wonwoo to grab the toad out of Seokmin’s hands, cooing at it and slipping it gently into his pocket. He throws himself on the seat opposite Seokmin, stretching his legs out to rest them on Seokmin’s lap. 

Wonwoo unthinkingly takes the spot next to Seokmin, who grins at him, wide and overcompensating, and Wonwoo forces a half-smile back. He’s a little in awe that this was the guy who’d managed to slip under the door of Wonwoo’s self-preservation and seduce him. A true testament to the magical properties of Beetle Berry Whiskey. 

“Did your parents throw a fit too, Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo turns back to Soonyoung, blinking. “Sorry?”

“After the...” Soonyoung wiggles his fingers and then looks up towards the ceiling. “You know, during the Tournament? We haven’t heard from you since then. I told Seokmin they might have locked you up in the basement.”

“Oh. Haha.” Wonwoo laughs, hoping Soonyoung doesn’t expect any confirmation on the second part of his statement. “I mean they were really worried, obviously. My mum’s a Muggle so she’s always a bit on edge.”

“My mum’s a Muggle too!” Seokmin exclaims. 

“Yeah, and she’s absolutely nuts,” Soonyoung provides, rolling his eyes. He takes a lolly out of the same pocket he’d put his toad in, unwraps it, and pops it in his mouth. It rattles against his teeth as he speaks. “Got his dad to hire a bloke from the Ministry to cast this fucked up _Protego_ enchantment over the entire house.” He lifts his legs off Seokmin’s lap to kick him lightly on the shins. “I tried to send him a letter and Junyoung’s owl came back with half his feathers fried off. Honestly, might as well just lock the entire family in Azkaban if you're gonna be like that.”

“Soonyoung’s just bitter 'cos his Dad made him lend his fancy new Firebolt to Junyoung as compensation,” Seokmin defends. Soonyoung scrunches his face at this and makes a biting motion. 

“No, I get it,” Wonwoo replies, reading Seokmin’s insecurity. “Muggle parents.”

Seokmin shakes his head. “It’s not just that. We live in Godric’s Hollow, we’re neighbours with—or well, _were_ neighbours with the Choi family. She’s convinced that the Dark Mark means You-Know-Who’s rising and that he has unfinished business on our street.”

It takes Wonwoo a few seconds to process this. When he finally does, he has to lean back, as if seeing Seokmin in a new light. “Wait. You were neighbours with Hansol when the whole... Thing happened?”

“The Boy Who Almost Lived,” Soonyoung announces proudly, patting Seokmin’s knee. 

Seokmin snorts. “That makes it sound like I died instead.”

“The Boy Who Lived, But Unremarkably So,” Soonyoung amends.

The compartment door slides open. For some reason, Wonwoo expects it to be Mingyu standing there with his overgrown canines and whatever offbeat haircut he’d gotten on a whim over the summer, that he’d soon come to regret and complain about not growing out fast enough. When, instead, it’s Wonwoo’s roommate and Ravenclaw Prefect Jihoon Lee staring down at them with his lips twisted in a grimace, Wonwoo recoils back like he’d been caught wanting something he shouldn’t. 

“Soonyoung,” Jihoon says sharply. “Why aren’t you in uniform.”

“Good morning, Jihoon!” chirps Seokmin. Jihoon’s eyes dart towards him, and a small smile flickers and then promptly disappears on his face. “How was your summer?”

“Nothing to write home about,” Jihoon answers simply, zeroing in on Soonyoung who’d sprawled himself across the entire length of his seat in the small space of time since Jihoon had entered. “Soonyoung, you’re supposed to be debriefing the prefects with Jihyo. Change out of that bin bag and into your robes immediately.”

In response, Soonyoung zips his jacket right to the top as if daring anyone to try and rip it off him. “This is a garment of _honour_ ,” he spits, voice pressed low. From beside Wonwoo, Seokmin has a hand across his mouth to try and hide his giggle, a futile measure since Seokmin’s entire face bursts with laugh-lines anyway. “ _Clearly_ you haven’t kept up with the World Cup. Is it because your boyfriend is still sulking over Taemin Lee knocking him off his broom during the British League?” 

“Firstly, you’re right, I haven’t been keeping up with that insipid game,” Jihoon says, smirking when both Seokmin and Soonyoung gasp and reach out to grab each other’s hands. “Secondly, Seungcheol is not my boyfriend. But he shouldn’t be sulking about that because the Wimbourne Wasps have had horrendous stats since Yunho Jung left them four years ago, and being knocked off his broom was the least humiliating part of that pathetic excuse for a match.”

“Blimey,” Seokmin breathes. “No wonder he isn’t your boyfriend.”

“And _thirdly_.” Jihoon shoots Seokmin a pointed look. “Ignore everything I just said and meet me in the Prefects’ carriage.” His robes swish around his feet as he turns to leave.

Soonyoung grumbles as he stands to follow Jihoon out, unzipping his jacket and passing it to Seokmin to hold. His Head Boy badge is stark against his grey sweater vest, the garnet glinting in the light as Soonyoung straightens it with a soft smile. 

“Well, I better be off,” Soonyoung says. “Have Prefects to shepherd who’ll no doubt be lost without me. Have fun, lads.” He pauses just as he’s at the door, a suggestive smile in place as he looks back to address Wonwoo and Seokmin one last time. “But not too much fun, aye? Don’t want a repeat of your hanky panky in the tent.” He winks and clicks his tongue, his cackle of amusement resonating through the air long after the sound of his footsteps have faded. 

The rhythmic _chug chug_ of the train becomes the most salient sound in compartment. Seokmin occupies himself by staring out the window, where the grey bungalows of suburban London have transitioned into an expansive green meadow, uncluttered against a clear blue sky. Wonwoo’s appreciation of this view is stunted by the way he can’t seem to stop focusing Seokmin’s nape, the skin dotted with pimples that he wonders were there the night of the final match. 

Of course, with the crisp consciousness of a sober mind, the weight of unfamiliarity between them is a lot less sensuous in nature and more blatantly uncomfortable. Wonwoo taps his fingers on his thighs, wishing he had Bokju with him to pet, or even a book to read. It’s a little discouraging that Seokmin Lee, also known by many of their Professors as “the Hufflepuff boy who never shuts up”, has been rendered silent thanks to Wonwoo. If Wonwoo has to endure this torturous quiet for the rest of this train ride, he at least deserves 100 points towards Ravenclaw.

“So um...” Seokmin begins. Wonwoo looks up from picking his cuticles, making eye contact with Seokmin who seems unprepared at having Wonwoo’s attention. “Your mum is a Muggle too, yeah?”

“Yes,” Wonwoo replies. “Yes, she is.”

“Was it...” Seokmin purses his lips, as if searching for the second half of the thought. “Weird for her? The whole magic thing?”

“She had a fair amount of time to adjust before I was born but I’d imagine so.” 

Seokmin laughs, with a distinct lack of sincerity that Wonwoo pretends not to notice. “I guess so, I mean, it’s weird I suppose. The magic thing. It’s... it’s weird.” 

Wonwoo is saved from having to dignify that with a response thanks to the trolley witch knocking on the wall of their compartment. “Anything from the trolley, dears?” she asks brightly, jovial smile dimming when both Seokmin and Wonwoo reply _“YES!”_ with a bit too much gusto.

“Shit,” Wonwoo swears, patting down his jeans. “I left my wallet in my trunk.”

“No worries!” Seokmin assures. He unfolds Soonyoung’s jacket from where it’d been bundled in his lap and sticks his hand down one of the pockets which, despite only looking large enough to fit an apple, manages to occupy the entirety of Seokmin’s arm up to his elbow. Seokmin peeks his tongue out, rummaging through whatever junk Soonyoung had stored in there and emerges with Soonyoung’s ugly toad cradled in his palm. “Bored in there, Kwonnie?” he says, stroking its head lightly before placing it on the seat between them. Its angry yellow eyes judge Wonwoo. 

Seokmin plunges his arm back into the pocket again, this time pulling out a pouch from its depths. He opens it to show Wonwoo the considerable amount of gold galleons hidden inside. “It’s his spare change that he keeps for emergencies,” he whispers conspiratorially, winking. Wonwoo understands; what bigger emergency is there than the futility of forging human connection? “We’ll buy the entire cart, please!”

Unfortunately, the cart doesn’t supply alcohol, and so fifteen minutes later nothing has changed except Wonwoo now has a stomachache from eating too many Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, and Seokmin has a smear of chocolate across his left cheek. Wonwoo had tried pointing it out, but Seokmin smudging it with his dirty fingers trying to clean it off only made it worse. 

Wonwoo shakes the Bertie Bott’s box upside down, the last jellybean falling into his hands. It’s a pale shade of red.

“What is that?” Seokmin asks, wary. “Unicorn guts?”

Wonwoo places it on his tongue, chewing slowly and wrinkling his nose in distaste. 

Seokmin looks on, aghast. “Merlin’s beard, it is unicorn guts.”

Wonwoo frowns, turning towards Seokmin and making a large show of gagging. “Strawberry,” he says solemnly.

Seokmin says nothing for a few seconds, then he snickers. “Loser,” he says, punching Wonwoo on the arm. In that moment, it almost feels like they’re friends. But then, Seokmin’s smile falters and his hand falls limply to the side. Wonwoo swallows his jellybean, dusting his jeans free of crumbs that aren’t there, and begins playing with a stray Salt Water Taffy wrapper.

Soonyoung’s toad croaks in the silence, a reminder from the Universe about their places in life.

 

 

After alighting the Express and leaving Seokmin and Soonyoung to go board a carriage, Wonwoo attempts to find Bohyuk before he takes one of the boats across the Black Lake to the Castle and the awaiting Start-of-term Feast. Bohyuk is skipping a stone across the water, smiling at a girl. She’s much taller than him and her face is disapproving of Bohyuk’s posturing. Wonwoo immediately likes her, until he reaches the pair and Bohyuk introduces her as Yanmei Xu. Trust him to go and woo the very sibling of the person Wonwoo told him to avoid. “I’m Minghao’s younger sister!” she chirps, “Do you know him?”

“I do,” Wonwoo replies. It’s not that he dislikes Minghao—in fact, he finds him perfectly agreeable as a peer—but if Mingyu does, then there must be _something_ wrong with him. “Where’s Bokju?”

“In her carrier, with the luggage, and a piece of Cauldron cake. Like you _told_ me.”

“Good boy,” Wonwoo says, grinning. “Well, you kids have fun then. Don’t touch the water,” he says as they start to walk away at the call of Professor Harrow. “Bohyuk Jeon.” Bohyuk slowly turns around. Wonwoo holds out his palm for Bohyuk to sheepishly hand him the large stone he’d been attempting to hoard. Immediately, Wonwoo tosses it into the lake. The thing had teeth.

Wonwoo makes his way to the last carriage in the line, hopping onto a seat next to Jihyo who is chatting to Jungyeon Yoo. They briefly look his way to say, “ _Hey, Wonwoo,_ ” before returning to their conversation. Wonwoo catches snippets of the content: _Nayeon_ , _broom closet_ , _Ministry_ , _you didn’t!_ The row opposite them is occupied by a gaggle of second years Wonwoo vaguely recognises from the Sorting Ceremony last year but hasn’t paid attention to since. He gives them a smile, and then turns to watch Hogwarts slowly start to loom over them. 

From here Wonwoo can spot the Ravenclaw Tower, its window tinted orange from the flame one of the elves must’ve started in preparation for their arrival. It’s a familiar view, but every journey up to the Castle at the start of the term is like the first. Like he’s eleven again and clutching onto his brand new wand for dear life, his robes a plain black and devoid of any House colours. And there it is, the giddiness and rapture Wonwoo feels every year, heightened by the secret event Soonyoung had been harping on about and mixed with a sense of nervousness at the schoolwork to come, and Mingyu, _and_ Seokmin. It’s a strange potion that makes Wonwoo’s stomach lurch and his hands curl white-knuckled around the edge of the carriage.

The feeling soon settles once they’re quickly shuffled through the Entrance Hall past the first years who are being guided into the Chamber of Reception, and into the Great Hall. It is warmly lit by the hundreds of candles levitating beneath the enchanted ceiling. The Ravenclaw table is between Slytherin and Hufflepuff and as Wonwoo makes his way there, his eyes scan the Gryffindor table. Mingyu is already sitting down, between Hansol and Nearly Headless Nichkhun. He glances in Wonwoo’s direction as though he can feel Wonwoo summoning his attention, and his face breaks into a smile. Wonwoo smiles back, although he points the V of his fingers into his eyes, then at Mingyu’s. Mingyu laughs, mouthing, _talk later?_ Soonyoung is sitting three spots down from Mingyu and he waves. 

Wonwoo feels torn about who to respond to—he nods at Mingyu quickly, before waving back at Soonyoung. He’s then jostled by a group of Hufflepuff girls trying to get past him, so he hurries to his own table, somewhat gratefully slipping into the free spot next to Junhui when his roommate beckons him over.

“Is that a wand in your pants or are you happy to see me?” is the first thing Junhui says to him.

Wonwoo pats down the pockets of his trousers underneath his robes, pulling out his wand and placing it on the table. “Nope, definitely my wand,” he replies dryly, long used to Junhui making passes at him.

Junhui laughs. “I’m just kidding. How was your summer?”

“Uneventful,” Wonwoo says, with a shrug, “I went to the World Cup, though.”

Junhui’s eyes round in surprise. “How’d you manage to get dragged to that? Thought you hated Quidditch.” Junhui is one of the Chasers on the Ravenclaw team, and he’s tried on numerous occasions to get Wonwoo to hold up a sign which reads _YOU CAN CHASE MY HEART ANY DAY, JUNHUI WEN_ in glittered font (“It’s not a romantic surprise if you’re _making_ me do it,” Wonwoo had pointed out. Junhui raised an eyebrow. “It’s not even romantic anyway!”) at the matches he plays.

“Of course,” Wonwoo replies, dragging his index finger through the grooves in the table. “But I couldn’t very well turn down the free ticket Soonyoung gave me, could I?”

“That’s nice of him,” Junhui says, nodding, and sounding like he doesn’t think it’s very nice at all. He’d never been that fond of Soonyoung after Soonyoung tricked him into throwing the Quaffle into Gryffindor’s goal post in their fifth year, earning Gryffindor ten points. Wonwoo still doesn’t understand how Soonyoung did it but the referee hadn’t deemed it foul play and Junhui’s been bitter about the embarrassment ever since. “Did you see the Dark Mark then?”

“Yeah, I got chills it was that creepy,” Wonwoo recounts. He’s stopped from going any further by the Headmaster silencing the entire Hall, and giving his usual welcoming speech. Wonwoo sits up straighter when the first years are shuffled into the Great Hall. 

He picks out Bohyuk from the group immediately; surprisingly, his brother looks anxious, chewing on his bottom lip and eyes darting across each table. He seems to be looking for Wonwoo because he lights up slightly when he spots him. Wonwoo shoots him a double thumbs up, and Bohyuk’s shoulders sag a little. 

As each kid places the Sorting Hat atop their head—Ravenclaw has gained six students so far—Bohyuk’s nerves visibly reappear. “Bohyuk Jeon!” the Headmaster calls out from the long scroll on his podium. Bohyuk picks up the Sorting Hat, almost tripping on his robes in his haste to get to the stool, and sits down. 

Wonwoo remembers his own Sorting Ceremony being just as daunting. He himself had almost been a hatstall, the Sorting Hat taking almost four minutes deliberating between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw before calling out Ravenclaw. He was disappointed when Mingyu and Soonyoung both ended up in Gryffindor but he’d later come to find out that Houses aren’t as much of a barrier to friendship as they’re made out to be. 

Bohyuk isn’t a hatstall, not even close. The Sorting Hat barely touches the hairs on his head before it yells, voice old and scratchy, “Gryffindor!”

Instantly, Bohyuk grins, fist pumping the air after he places the Sorting Hat back on the stool. He bounds over to the Gryffindor table, allowing Mingyu to sling his arm across his shoulders, shaking Bohyuk’s tiny frame in celebration. Wonwoo shakes his head, chuckling as he turns back to the Sorting Hat and the newest Ravenclaw addition it’s just announced. Wonwoo isn’t disappointed in the least. Bohyuk’s going to thrive in red and gold.

After dinner, the Headmaster calls for everyone’s attention with an amplified tap of his wand against a wine glass. Wonwoo takes a sip of the hot chocolate that appears in the wake of his dinner plate, twisting his upper body to face the professors’ table. 

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” the Headmaster announces, voice carrying across the Great Hall. It is dead silent, save for Junhui telling Wonwoo he’s got a milk moustache, wiping it away for him, and then Dawon hissing at them to keep it down. 

The Headmaster carries on, pronouncing each syllable in his usual slow, careful way that has the student body hanging off his every word, “Unfortunately, the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not be taking place this year.”

The reaction is immediate; a distressed tittering from most of the Hall, an indignant roar from one of the Lee twins. Next to Wonwoo, Junhui makes a show of banging his fist on the table, exclaiming, “He’s got to be taking the piss!” Even when the Headmaster calls for them to hush, there is noise in the Hall—of upset seventh years who were looking forward to their last taste of Hogwarts Quidditch, of all the hopefuls who’d been bracing themselves to try out for their House teams this year, and the rest of the school who simply enjoyed the excitement of a good ole match outside of the tedious school week. 

“Now, the Inter-House Quidditch Cup may be cancelled, but for good reason,” the Headmaster explains.

“Yeah, what could that be?!”

“Patience, Mr Lee.” The Headmaster holds up a finger. “I would like to formally announce that Hogwarts will be, for the first time in over two hundred years, hosting the Triwizard Tournament.”

“What’s that?” Junhui whispers, “Is it Quidditch?”

So, Wonwoo’s suspicions about the game he’d read in _Hogwarts, a History_ were correct. The Headmaster elaborates: the Triwizard Tournament is an inter-school competition between Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. The tasks are treacherous and not for the faint-hearted, but the Tournament promises eternal glory for the champion (the cup and a thousand galleons aren’t too shabby a prize either). 

Wonwoo is of Wizarding Age, but he’s already made up his mind: entering is out of the question. He'd rather another fling with the London Eye than succumb himself to “immense danger” and “a high death toll”. But, as the Headmaster points out, the school is in for quite the year.


	3. mandrake root, four leaf clover, let's pass our classes this october

They’ve got the weekend off before classes the following week, and Wonwoo spends the time preparing for History of Magic. His only social interaction other than checking up on Bohyuk and stopping past Professor Dahlia’s office so she can give him the rundown on his assistant position, is briefly chatting to Mingyu at lunch on Sunday:

“Long time no talk,” Wonwoo says drily, as he takes a seat next to Mingyu at the Gryffindor table. 

Mingyu grins, wrapping an arm around Wonwoo’s shoulders and squeezing him. Wonwoo shrugs him off with an eye-roll. “Tell me about it,” Mingyu complains, “I’ve missed talking to someone— _anyone_ —who isn’t my parents. There were only so many times I could listen to them marvel at mosquito repellent before I wanted to throw myself to the lions. We were in Tanzania for a little while, you see.”

Wonwoo eats his toast, feeling like he’s listening to Mingyu through murky lake water as he chatters away about his vacation for a while. Soon Mingyu grows bored of his own voice and turns the conversation to classes this year, asking which ones Wonwoo is taking.

Soonyoung walks past at some point, slapping Mingyu on the back with a, “Broooo, you’ve gotten some sun. You’re glowing.” To Wonwoo, he blows a kiss. 

Wonwoo wants to fall face-first into his soup. 

On Monday morning, he’s woken up by Junhui and Jihoon bickering about underwear. What Wonwoo gathers lying there on his four-poster bed is that they both own a pair of the exact same boxers and now they’ve mixed them up. 

Wonwoo draws back his curtains, yawning as he hops off his bed and into his slippers. He gives his roommates a salute when Junhui sing-songs, “Morning, Wonwoo.” The clock on the opposite wall tells him he has ten minutes to get ready for breakfast. He grabs his folded uniform and towel from his trunk, laying them over his forearm. 

By now, Jihoon and Junhui have started changing, the pair of boxers left atop Jihoon’s trunk. “What I don’t get,” Wonwoo says, as he opens the door of their dorm room, “is how you both managed to find underwear the exact same shade of Bertie Bott’s Overcooked Cabbage.”

“Shut up, they’re cotton,” Jihoon mumbles.

“Have fun showering! I’ll see you in History!” Junhui calls out.

 

 

Monday passes uneventfully, and Tuesday brings Potions with the Gryffindors. Wonwoo enters the classroom with Libatius Borage’s _Advanced Potion-Making_ under his arm and his wand tucked behind his ear. Seated at one of the tables in the last row is Soonyoung. He waves Wonwoo over, shooting him a toothy grin. Wonwoo has barely sat on his stool before Soonyoung’s dragging him closer and whispering, rather loudly, “We missed you!”

“We?” Wonwoo repeats. It’s with a flip of his stomach that he realises. “Ah, Seokmin? You saw me the other day.”

Soonyoung squishes their cheeks together; it’s the only response he gives to Wonwoo’s statement. He lets Wonwoo go and goes on to say, “Your brother’s a hoot. He’s already trying to get the Lee twins to take him under their wing.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Wonwoo sighs, plucking off his glasses and using a quick cleaning spell on the smudges Soonyoung had left on them just now. 

“Are you thinking about entering your name into the Goblet?” Soonyoung asks, flipping open a dog-eared page of his Potions textbook. 

“Me?” Wonwoo scoffs. 

Soonyoung gives him a sidelong glance, before laughing, “True. Well, the champion’s gotta be a Gryffindor, _I_ think.”

“And what better Gryffindor than you, Soonyoung,” Wonwoo drawls, knocking his shoulder against Soonyoung’s.

Their conversation is interrupted by Professor Sitz saying, “Mind sharing with the class the content of your thrilling conversation, Mr Jeon?”, his monotone voice carrying across the dungeon.

“Yeah, Mr Jeon wants to know if we’re making Amortentia today,” Soonyoung chimes in before Wonwoo can apologise.

“Someone’s read the syllabus,” Professor Sitz remarks. “Yes, you’ll find the instructions of Amortentia on page sixty-three of your textbook. It is the strongest love potion in existence...”

An hour later, Wonwoo and Soonyoung have brewed a small cauldron’s worth of Amortentia. The liquid has a mother-of-pearl sheen to it, a spiralling steam emerging from the cauldron like the textbook told them it should. 

Professor Sitz stops past their table, peering into their cauldron. He frowns for a solid thirty seconds before commenting, “Good work, boys. What can you tell me about the aroma?”

“It’s meant to be what you find most attractive in a person,” Wonwoo answers, at the same time Soonyoung blurts out, “Morning air.”

Professor Sitz nods at Wonwoo. To Soonyoung, he says, “Go on.” 

“Cinnamon. I can’t really describe the third smell, but it reminds me of the Muggle taxicab my dad and I caught last year?” Soonyoung nudges Wonwoo’s side. “What’s yours?”

Wonwoo bends forward, taking a sniff. “I smell sun cream, Cauldron cake. And uh, sweat?”

“Huh,” Soonyoung laughs. “Gross. Sounds like Seokmin.”

“It doesn’t sound like Seokmin,” Wonwoo says, after an awkward moment. 

“Well, you _did_ find him attractive,” Soonyoung points out. “I’m only teasing!” he protests when Wonwoo threatens to slip some of the Amorentia into his drink at dinner. Five minutes later, when the blush on Wonwoo’s face has faded, Soonyoung asks, “Does that mean you’re sitting next to us at dinner?”

 

 

On Wednesday, Wonwoo makes his way down to the greenhouses before the rest of the Herbology class to help Professor Dahlia prepare the Venomous Tentacula they’ll be studying later in the morning. He sets each pot along the tables, the plant seemingly calm for now, its fangs retracted. Herbology is with the Hufflepuffs this year—when Soonyoung had called him over to the Hufflepuff table at dinner last night he’d found out that Seokmin was taking Herbology too:

“It’s not my strongest subject,” Seokmin explains, gulping down a mouthful of casserole, “But I need the N.E.W.T if I wanna become a mediwizard.”

“Wonwoo can help you out!” Soonyoung bursts. Wonwoo slumps in his seat, ducking away from the fork Soonyoung jabs in his direction. “He’s Dahlia’s assistant, he told me earlier.”

“You’re good at Herbology then,” Seokmin remarks, looking over at Wonwoo. 

“Sort of,” Wonwoo mumbles, tearing himself a piece of sourdough bread.

“I still can’t believe the Quidditch Cup’s not on this year,” Soonyoung changes the subject suddenly, his voice forlorn, “They took away my best subject. Even the Triwizard Tournament can’t make up for this injustice.”

“Quidditch isn’t a subject though?” Wonwoo comments.

Soonyoung narrows his eyes at Wonwoo, taking a deep breath, and Seokmin gives Wonwoo a shrug as if to say _well, you’ve done it now_.

By the time the students filter into the greenhouse and Professor Dahlia begins to explain the lesson for today, Seokmin isn’t here yet. Wonwoo is partnered with a fellow Ravenclaw, Sejeong, for the observational report they have to write during class. Professor Dahlia leaves all of them to it, a slight smirk on her face as she tells them, “You may curse if you feel the need to.”

The statement doesn’t fully sink in until they’re fifteen minutes into the lesson, and the Venomous Tentacula they’re dealing with has already attempted to seize Sejeong with its roaming vines twice; both times Wonwoo has to use a Severing charm on the appendages, wincing when the plant curls into itself, momentarily hurt. Sejeong, Wonwoo finds, swears like a sailor. It makes the beatific smile she shoots Wonwoo’s way when he stuns the Venomous Tentacula and pulls her out of its clutch for the third time slightly disarming.

The two of them have just started their report when Seokmin strolls into the greenhouse. Wonwoo glances up at the sound of the door slamming shut, his quill poised against the scroll. Seokmin’s robes are twisted, his shaggy hair sticking up in every which direction, and his face bright red. Wonwoo almost pities him, but the sentiment is lost when Professor Dahlia says, “Nice of you to join us on this fine morning, Mr Lee,” and Seokmin winks at her. Seokmin shrugs at Wonwoo when he catches his eye, and Wonwoo lets out a half-hearted scoff, returning to his report.

“Did you hear about the Hogsmeade trip next week?” Sejeong asks Wonwoo after a while.

“Already?” Wonwoo says. 

“Exclusively for seventh years,” Sejeong tells him. “I’m guessing they feel bad most of us will probably be too busy with N.E.W.Ts to make the _actual_ trip.”

Wonwoo nods. He hadn’t been planning to go to Hogsmeade anytime soon, but he supposes he’ll have to now. He likes to spend his trips there chatting to the bartender at the Hog’s Head Pub about Muggle literature—the man is surprisingly conversational underneath all his gruffness—and he’s been craving their make of Firewhiskey all summer.

On the other side of the greenhouse, Seokmin has muscled his way into Kyungwon and Binnie’s group. The pair of gloves he’s adorned provide little protection from the fiery spore-like balls their Venomous Tentacula has decided to direct at him. Wonwoo chuckles as he notes this on his scroll. Seokmin must be a pioneer; none of the other Venomous Tentacula in the greenhouse have spat fire yet.

“Today sucks Pygmy Puffs,” Seokmin groans to Wonwoo when he falls into step with him outside the greenhouse. They’re making their way across the lawns to the Great Hall for lunch.

“Did you just make up that phrase?”

“Yes,” Seokmin says, “I mean, they’re small and hairy and—”

Wonwoo shoves Seokmin’s shoulder, cutting him off. “Why’d you turn up late?”

“It’s a long story,” Seokmin says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Soonyoung and I stayed up all night playing Quidditch on the pitch,”—he narrows his eyes at Wonwoo—“You aren’t allowed to tell anyone ‘cause we snuck in and we’ll get into shit. I’m trying to redeem myself for costing Hufflepuff five hundred points in total last year. Don’t ask.”

“Some Head Boy Soonyoung is,” Wonwoo says, after whistling lowly.

“Only the kinda Head Boy who uses his privileges for the greater good.”

“And the greater good is Quidditch?” Wonwoo retorts, as they enter the Great Hall, the tables already lined with food.

“Duh,” Seokmin says, grinning.

 

 

“It’s a long story,” is the first thing Wonwoo says when he enters Charms on Thursday half an hour late and Seokmin raises an eyebrow at him. “I have a _valid_ reason,” he adds pointedly.

Soonyoung cuffs Seokmin’s arm. “You _told_ him?” Charms is mixed Houses this year because so few students had enrolled (“Funny considering how Charms is the most useful of subjects,” Wonwoo later hears Professor Lepos lamenting to two Slytherins in the row behind them, “We’ll have an entire workforce of students who cannot cast a Geminio spell.”) and Wonwoo doesn’t fancy being stuck with both Seokmin and Soonyoung in class for an entire year.

Seokmin blinks. “Well, yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

“Ravenclaws are notorious tattletales, Seokmin, you know that,” Soonyoung stage-whispers behind the back of his hand. He then turns to Wonwoo, batting his eyelashes. “Soooo, why are you late?”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes, mouth set in a toothless smile, and begins to recount his morning: he was jostled awake by Jihoon who told him he’d been summoned to the Hospital Wing. Jihoon gave him no further detail because he was cross about having to tell Wonwoo in the first place, grumbling about it not being in his job description as Head Boy. 

“You should be paid overtime,” Wonwoo says, placing a hand on Jihoon’s shoulder as he leaves the room, in no hurry at all. 

The statement seems to appease Jihoon because his small frame slumps under Wonwoo’s palm, and he sighs, “I know.”

Wonwoo ambles his way down to the Hospital Wing in his pyjamas, only mildly curious as to why he had to make this trip (perhaps Bokju, who has been missing for three days now, scratched up some first year like she did last year. Whenever she’s at Hogwarts, Bokju transforms into a stray cat; Wonwoo swears she doesn’t even recognise him sometimes. Bohyuk insists she’s descended from Scottish wildcats). But he’s too tired to even register upon entering the Hospital Wing that it’s _Bohyuk_ laying on one of the cots, and not some other tiny first year with the beginnings of acne and a crooked smile that they haven’t found out Madam Honeycutt can fix yet. They’re all the same the older Wonwoo gets. 

“Wonwoo!” Bohyuk calls out, grinning, much too cheery for almost 8AM in the morning. It’s ten minutes to breakfast, which means ten minutes Wonwoo could be spending fast asleep.

“Bohyuk?” Wonwoo says. He rubs his eyes, his knuckles now sticky with sleep. “What are you doing here?”

“Your brother here was puking through the night,” Madam Honeycutt says from behind Wonwoo. She approaches Bohyuk’s cot with a vial of some bright pink medicine.

“Why?” Wonwoo asks, perching himself on the end of Bohyuk’s mattress. He pats Bohyuk’s shin over his blanket. He then pauses, and jerks his hand away. “You’re not contagious, are you?”

“Far from it,” Madam Honeycutt tells him. She goes about drawing the medicine with a syringe, one eye squeezed shut to focus. “Care to tell your brother the story, Bohyuk?”

“It was _awesome_ , Wonwoo,” Bohyuk exclaims. He wears the pallor of his face like it’s a battle scar. “The Lee twins are geniuses, I’m telling you.” Wonwoo shares a look with Madam Honeycutt and she smiles, shaking her head. “They invented these sweets called Puking Pastilles, right, and they let _me_ test them out. Me!”

“Puking Pastilles?” Wonwoo repeats. He’ll need to have a word with the Lee twins, a word that will probably end up being, “Please don't. My mum'll have my head.” While he's all for Bohyuk making mistakes and learning from them, Wonwoo is not prepared to make his own mistakes by letting Bohyuk do so. He has learnt that much over the last eleven years.

“Yeah, they’re meant to help you skive off class. They’ve got a whole range of different sweets, Fainting Fancies, Nosebleed Nougat, you name it. Anyway, the orange side makes you vomit, and you eat the purple side—it makes you feel better—once you’re nice and snug in the Hospital Wing.” Bohyuk’s eyes widen, darting over to Madam Honeycutt, and he smacks a hand over his mouth. He leans forward in the bed, and whispers, “The purple side did nothing for me though, ‘s why I’m here now. The Lee twins told me they’re gonna work on it.”

Wonwoo stays with Bohyuk through another three rounds of vomiting; Madam Honeycutt provides him with a bowl that magics the barf away as soon as it hits the bottom. Before Wonwoo can finally leave, having missed breakfast and feeling quite queasy himself, Bohyuk grabs his wrist in a death grip, his tone jittery as he says, “Skiving Snackboxes are ten galleons! Please buy one!”

“Blimey, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung remarks, swishing his wand so as to gouge into the piece of steel he’s testing a Defodio spell on. The steel remains smooth. “Your brother’s been brainwashed.”

Meanwhile, Seokmin rests his elbow on the desk, his chin cupped in his palm. “I wish I had a younger brother. Or even a sister.”

“No!” Soonyoung and Wonwoo cry, simultaneously.

“But—”

“Trust me,” Soonyoung says, patting a pouting Seokmin on the shoulder. “Now tell me again, Wonwoo, what was the inflection on Defodio?”

 

 

Because Wonwoo had sat at Seokmin and Soonyoung’s desk in Charms, he ends up being teamed up with them for the short essay due next week. “The lady doth protest too much,” Soonyoung drawls when a flustered Wonwoo tries to argue with Professor Lepos that writing an essay on the ethics of the Unforgivable Curses was most definitely better done individually, and that if he _had_ to be paired up why couldn’t it be with a Ravenclaw who’d do their part without them having to speak a single word to each other (Wonwoo does not mention that last part to Lepos.) “You know, I’m sort of offended. Me and Seokmin are team players!” 

“Seokmin and I,” Wonwoo corrects absentmindedly as he heaves his books into his arms, hugging them against his chest.

“Why,” Soonyoung whines, shaking his open palms, “Why do you do this to me?”

“I have no say in the matter, it was my destiny,” Wonwoo says solemnly. 

Soonyoung rolls his eyes, saying, “Well, lads, I best be off to Muggle Studies.” As he leaves, he shouts, “Keep him humble, Seokmin!”

Wonwoo doesn’t have classes on Friday so he spends much of the day cooped up in the library writing the Charms essay. Soonyoung and Seokmin have Divination in the morning (Wonwoo appreciates the art of Divination, sure, but he’d been baffled as to why they decided to take a subject that practically counted for nothing in the grand scheme of the Wizarding workforce. When he voiced this opinion, Seokmin had told him, “Yeah, but it’s also an easy Outstanding,” while Soonyoung pet Wonwoo’s shoulder almost pitifully.) Wonwoo emerges only when he’s stuck on how the Killing curse could’ve possibly been counteracted all those years ago by the Boy Who Lived, and his feet take him to the Gryffindor tower to ask Hansol himself before he even has a chance to think about how Hansol probably has no idea either. He was only a baby. 

Still, Wonwoo idles at the stairwell, clutching tightly onto the stone handrail, his ears perked as he tries to make out the password so he can find Soonyoung to finish the essay. It’s a tried and true technique from all the times he’s visited Mingyu—he patters across the corridor when it’s empty, his blue and bronze tie flipped around to his back, and grins up at the Fat Lady. “Balderdash,” he recites. 

“Don’t you ever sleep?” the Fat Lady murmurs, probably in reference to the fact that she believes Wonwoo to be a Gryffindor.

“Nope,” Wonwoo singsongs, striding into the Gryffindor common room when the door swings open. His tie slaps against his spine.

The common room is circular, much like Ravenclaw’s, but less airy and a lot more cosier; with squashy armchairs and scarlet tapestries depicting Gryffindor’s heroes, compared to Ravenclaw’s starry midnight blue carpeting, the large arched windows, its tall bookshelves packed to the brim and wooden chairs. Wonwoo passes the bulletin board near the entrance. Amongst the many notices pasted to it is a colourful handmade poster plugging Seungkwan’s Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, and a huge Taeyong Lee winking continuously at them, a photo no doubt torn out of _Teen Witch_.

Soonyoung is easier to find than Wonwoo thought he would be. He’s laying upside down on one of the couches, like he’s a sloth, his legs dangling over the back and his feet kicking up into the air rhythmically. As Wonwoo approaches, his ears pick up what Soonyoung is chattering about, “Guess what my tea dregs said today, Kwonnie,” he lowers his voice, “Something great is about to happen to me.”

Wonwoo leans over the edge of the couch, grinning as he says, “Yeah, me.”

Soonyoung shrieks, jolting up and almost dropping his toad. “What the bloody hell are you doing in here?”

Wonwoo shrugs. “You’ve seen me in here before.”

“Get outta here you blue imposter!” Soonyoung cries, clumsily swinging his legs off the back of the couch with a grunt. 

“Don’t be dramatic,” Wonwoo says, waving his hand in dismissal, “Is Seokmin around? We need to work on the Charms essay.”

“What’s he on about,” Soonyoung mutters to Kwonnie, “Charms isn’t due till Thursday week.”

“Yeah, but—I’ve done some of it in the library, and just... Are you free now or not?”

“I’ll go get Seokmin, yeah? Meet in the library?” Soonyoung says, smiling softly. It makes Wonwoo colour a little, embarrassed. “Betcha did superbly on the paper, do you even need us?”

“‘Course I need you,” Wonwoo retorts, not realising how that statements sounds until it’s out of his mouth. “Don’t think you can use me for schoolwork, just ‘cause I’m a Ravenclaw.” Soonyoung laughs, hooking his arm around Wonwoo’s as they leave the Gryffindor tower. 

Wonwoo forgets to turn his Ravenclaw tie back around to his front, and the Fat Lady gasps loudly when she spots it.

 

 

Although it takes far longer than Wonwoo had anticipated, he’s at least proud to say that they manage to finish the paper before midnight struck. Soonyoung and Seokmin had wasted fifteen minutes roaming the maze of the library before Seokmin thought to use a spell to find Wonwoo. But by then, Soonyoung had been hit in the head with Brutus Scrimgeour’s _The Beaters’ Bible_ as it flew back to its spot on the shelf (“Ironic, don’t you think?” Seokmin tells Wonwoo). 

The hour before Wonwoo leaves for Ancient Runes is spent periodically sighing into _Magick Moste Evile_ as Seokmin babies Soonyoung back to good health. “Do the thing, Seokku,” Soonyoung whines, and Seokmin stands up to do a travesty of an Irish dance. It grows sillier the louder Soonyoung claps.

“Are you two for real?” Wonwoo mutters, forcefully turning another page of his book. 

A chill sweeps over them. It’s Lavinia Libel, the ghost librarian, floating above them with a scowl on her face, her wiry hair pulled up into a bun and her starched collar buttoned up to her chin. “I would like to know, as well. Are the two of you,” she pulls a face, “for real?”

The pair smile sheepishly up at Libel, Soonyoung’s fingers splay out in a twitchy wave. Suffice to say, they’re kicked out and are forced to make their way to Study Hall to take up where the paper had been left off, which was on the line: _The Killing Curse cannot be counteracted, however_ —

A few days later, when Wonwoo is making his way through the Ravenclaw common room to leave for Herbology, Donghyuk tells him that he heard from Jiho who heard from Mingyu that Bokju was spotted near the Hall of Hexes. With a sigh, Wonwoo treks his way up the few flights of stairs to the seventh floor. On the fifth floor, someone calls out his name. Seokmin is standing on the landing, his robes undone and loose like he’d just quickly thrown them on over his sweater. 

“Morning,” Seokmin says when a slightly out-of-breath Wonwoo reaches him. “Where are you off to? The greenhouses are outside, in case you forgot.”

“Smartarse,” Wonwoo mutters under his breath. Seokmin grins at the insult. “Rumour has it my wayward cat’s on the seventh floor. Haven’t seen her in two weeks.”

Seokmin looks perplexed by this explanation. “You haven’t seen your own pet in two weeks?” He trails after Wonwoo as he stalks up the staircase before it moves away.

Wonwoo hops over a trick step and turns back to raise an eyebrow at Seokmin. “Well, since you’re following me now, you’ll see. Why were _you_ up here anyway? This where the Puff dorm is?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Seokmin says, skipping two steps so he’s in sync with Wonwoo, “I was visiting Yearning Yuju in the Prefects’ Bathroom. We have uh, heart-to-hearts sometimes.”

“You have heart-to-hearts with _Yearning Yuju_?” Wonwoo says, quite bemused by the sudden image of Seokmin surrounded by multicoloured bubbles, chatting to the ghost who’d screeched at Wonwoo when he accidentally walked into the first floor Girls’ Lavatory in his first year. “What the hell do you even talk about?”

“Just stuff,” Seokmin grumbles, waving his hand dismissively as they reach the seventh floor. 

Wonwoo doesn’t bother prying any further because his attention is immediately taken by the sight at the end of the corridor: Bokju lounging beneath a gargoyle, the aura of a queen surrounding her. As though she had foreseen Wonwoo’s arrival, she begins to strut down the corridor towards them, a mass of something unidentifiable clamped between her teeth. 

“Come here, Bok-bok-bokju,” Wonwoo calls out. 

“Is your cat a chicken?” Seokmin jokes.

“Look at the fluff on her,” Wonwoo points out, striding forward to meet Bokju halfway. Her fur is matted in some places, frizzy and tangled with leaves in others. “She’s more chicken than cat.”

Bokju then leaps towards Wonwoo, and drops what had been in her bloodstained mouth at his feet. It’s a dead mouse. Wonwoo has the sudden urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“Merlin’s Beard,” Seokmin breathes, “Your cat’s a murderer, not a chicken.”

Wonwoo shrugs, reaching down to scoop Bokju into his arms and incanting a spell that tidies her fur. “It’s the food chain, Seokmin,” he says simply, leading them back down the corridor. 

Seokmin loops back to pick up his wand that’d clattered onto the ground, with a kind of nonchalance that suggests he drops it often. He then exclaims, “Wait, stop! Did you see that?”, clutching Wonwoo’s elbow when he catches up to him.

Wonwoo stops nuzzling Bokju—he’s mildly pleased that she was purring and he hasn’t completely lost her to Mother Nature—and glances up. He doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. 

“This door just appeared,” Seokmin elaborates, going over to jiggle the doorknob, and then turning it to reveal a small room; in it a king-sized bed with a gauze canopy, rose petals scattered across the quilt, and candles placed in tiny alcoves in the walls. 

Wonwoo gulps.

Seokmin seems oblivious. “Ooh, is that chocolate?” He rushes into the room, and Wonwoo has to drag him back by his robes.

“Don’t go in there. We’re on the seventh floor, right?”

Seokmin nods, closing the door reluctantly. His ears are a little pink. “Must be the Room of Requirement.” 

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “You’ve read _Hogwarts, A History_?”

“No, the Lee twins have this map that… Aaaaand I wasn’t meant to tell you that either. You slipping me Veritaserum or something?”

“Nope,” Wonwoo says, laughing, “It’s all you.” Like that, the two of them forget to question why either of them had required a candlelit bedroom in the first place, and they make their way down to the greenhouses for Herbology.

 

 

It’s a gloomy morning when the senior cohort gather to set upon their first Hogsmeade trip of the year. Wonwoo had been tempted to sleep in like he does every Saturday—no, that _was_ the plan—but Junhui had unceremoniously peeled back his deep blue quilt and dug his icy fingers into Wonwoo’s stomach until Wonwoo found the strength to throw him off. Then he’d moved on to do the same to Jihoon. Jihoon didn’t even bother fighting back.

“It’s cold,” Wonwoo complains, shrugging the collar of his peacoat higher. He’s standing next to Seokmin, who’d stumbled into Wonwoo’s side five minutes ago looking like he’d just rolled out of bed (he wouldn't be the only one). There’s a hair sprouting from the back of his head that Wonwoo has to suppress the urge to smooth down. 

“Please, it’s practically summer,” Seokmin says, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater for emphasis. Ten seconds later, he tugs them back down, his tan skin covered in goosebumps. “See, summer.” 

“I’ll be sure to bring you flowers in the Hospital Wing when you end up with a fever tomorrow,” Wonwoo chides. “ _Real_ ones.”

Seokmin chuckles, grimacing a little. Somewhere near the front of the assembly, Soonyoung’s voice can be heard talking to one of the professors about _this magical drink called vodka_ he tried when visiting his distant Muggle relatives over the summer. 

“It’s not too late to go back and grab a jacket,” Wonwoo suggests, placing a hand on Seokmin’s forearm.

“No point,” Seokmin says with a shrug, “Two Firewhiskeys have the same effect.”

Wonwoo, hyper aware of the fact that he’s still touching Seokmin, snatches back his hand and shoves it into his pocket. “Hm, I can’t argue with that logic.”

Seokmin chuckles. “Speaking of Firewhiskey, did you want to join me and Soonyoung at the Three Broomsticks?” When Wonwoo glances to the side in hesitation, Seokmin pouts, and tacks on, “A drink on me?”

“Fine,” Wonwoo surrenders, peeling his eyes away from Seokmin’s bottom lip. “But make it two.”

 

 

Wonwoo doesn’t frequent Three Broomsticks Inn very often. It’s far too noisy and crowded—though less so today given the hour and that only seventh years are here—and he prefers the sleepiness of the Hog’s Head Pub to—to, well, this:

He’s squished onto a bench between Tweedledum and Tweedledee, the two of them passing a pint of Butterbeer back and forth. Wonwoo takes a big gulp of the drink Seokmin had promised him, praying that he’ll swallow down the pressing memory of that evening in the tent too. His head lolls back and he makes eye contact with Hansol sat at the table behind them. Hansol mouths, _good luck, dude_ , and then turns his attention back to Chan, who is choking on a Fizzing Whizbee. 

“Wonwoo, dear,” Soonyoung sing-songs, “Aren’t you listening?”

Wonwoo sits up, rubbing a crick in his neck. “What are you talking about?”

“Tehrani was totally wack in Divination yesterday,” Seokmin says, his wet mouth pressed up right against Wonwoo’s temple for a second. “More wack than usual. She pointed at me and her eyes went all woooooooooh, and she was going on about some prophecy blah blah You Know Who.”

Soonyoung snickers. “Haven’t I always told you that you were the Rejected One, son. Wait, the Unchosen One?”

Wonwoo places his fingertip on Seokmin’s forehead, pushing him away. “She could’ve told you your tea leaves meant you’re gonna be struck by lightning at the age of twenty.”

“ _I’m_ going to be eaten by a dragon while on my honeymoon,” Soonyoung pitches in.

“That’ll never happen,” Seokmin says.

“Why?” Soonyoung scoffs, “Tehrani knows her stuff.”

“‘Cause no one’ll ever marry you,” Seokmin retorts, hiding his proud smile behind his palm.

Soonyoung’s eyes slit. Barely a second later, they brighten, and he grins. Wonwoo anticipates a brilliant comeback but what he doesn’t expect is: “I should’ve dropped you two lovebirds off at Madam Puddifoot’s when I had the chance.”

“What has that got to do with anything?” Wonwoo groans. 

But Soonyoung isn’t listening. “Hm, but I think you prefer something a lil more rough. Something like a te—” 

Wonwoo slaps a hand over Soonyoung’s mouth. Seokmin says nothing.

 

 

The last Friday of October, Wonwoo joins the rest of the student body in becoming an easily distracted mass of restless energy. The air is stagnant but heavy with foreboding; classes go on as usual, but the entire castle looks as though it’s undergone a restoration overnight. The empty armour along the hallways have been polished, the Great Hall has been decorated with large silk banners for each of the Hogwarts houses, and the stairs no longer creak as they move—unfortunate for Mingyu, who had been so occupied this morning with telling Wonwoo how hot the Beauxbaton kids were rumoured to be, that he’d almost missed a step and would’ve met an untimely demise had Wonwoo not pulled him back by the robes at the last minute.

Today, the minutes in Ancient Runes seem to be moving with the velocity of a boulder being pushed up a hill. The second hand heaves around the clock while Wonwoo’s knee bounces under the table, as if doing it fast enough would cast a spell to speed up time itself. 

By the time Study Hall rolls around Wonwoo is more settled, but can barely focus on the _A History of Magic_ textbook in front of him, too immersed in a fantasy of meeting a parallel universe Wonwoo from Beauxbatons, packaged with a thick French accent and a beret. Would Beauxbaton Wonwoo have ended up in the Beauxbaton equivalent of Gryffindor, and become best friends with Beauxbaton Mingyu and Beauxbaton Soonyoung? He’s sure Soonyoung and Seokmin’s friendship would be consistent throughout the entire multiverse. And if Beauxbaton Wonwoo was friends with Beauxbaton Soonyoung, does that mean he’d naturally absorb the companionship of Beauxbaton Seokmin as well? If they’d been friends since first year, would Wonwoo be able to be alone in the same room with him without a feeling of apprehension crackling in his gut? 

“Not that your face isn’t mighty distracting on regular days Wonwoo, but it’s even moreso when you’re actually distracted,” Junhui comments from opposite him. It’s an odd statement to make, since Junhui hasn’t looked away from his textbook for the past thirty minutes. 

“You’re the one who invited yourself to sit with me,” Wonwoo grumbles. “You aren’t the least bit excited to meet people from other wizarding schools?”

“Why would I be?” Junhui flips a page of his textbook. Wonwoo wonders if he’s actually reading it or whether he’s doing it for effect. 

“You don’t want to see how the other side lives?” Wonwoo asks, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve only read books, but I hear Durmstrang’s heavily involved in the dark arts. Beauxbatons isn’t as interesting, but Mingyu says they’re hot if that means anything to you.”

Junhui’s lips quirk up slightly at this, and he glances up at Wonwoo to study him with a lazy gaze. “Here’s the funny thing about magic, Wonwoo,” he says. “Once you get over how extraordinary it is, you find that all wizards are just the same type of different.”

“Can’t say I disagree.” Wonwoo snorts. “Christ, no wonder I have a grand total of two friends. What a cheery pair we make.”

“I’m plenty cheery Wonwoo, as you know.” He raises a foot to skid down Wonwoo’s leg under the table. Wonwoo kicks it away almost routinely. “It’s just reserved for the things that deserve it.”

 

 

That night at 6PM, Wonwoo stands outside the castle with two hundred other Hogwarts students, watching a powdered blue carriage drawn by a dozen wingless horses, sail over the canopy of the Forbidden Forest. Everyone looks on in awe as an animal that could only be a product of a stallion mating with a giant, lands with a thunderous crash on the school grounds. The exception, of course, being Junhui, who had hummed in mild interest when a second year Hufflepuff first cried out upon spotting what the Headmaster confirmed to be the Beauxbaton delegates soaring across the sky, and then returned to playing with Wonwoo’s hair. 

No sooner does Wonwoo begin to think that Durmstrang would have a hard time outdoing that show, a sickening gurgle resounds from the Great Lake. Wonwoo has to stand on his tiptoes to see above all the other students who had clustered together for a closer look, and can distinctly make out a whirlpool forming in the middle of the black water. A bare-bones type of ship rises from the depths. In the scant evening lighting, it looks like the haunted skeleton of a pirate ship is anchoring itself onto the bay. Even Junhui, despite the veneer of apathy he’d kept so far, is intrigued by this, and makes a small _‘Ooh’_ as people began disembarking the ship and walking towards them.

It becomes apparent however, as the Durmstrang students draw nearer and the anticipatory murmurs turn into barely suppressed squeals, that it wasn’t the chosen method of transportation than Junhui had been ‘ooh’-ing at. Wonwoo isn’t the best with popular culture, but considering how many times Soonyoung’s younger sister Junyoung had thrust her Taeyong Lee photobook under Wonwoo’s nose that summer, even without the screech of _‘It’s Taeyong Lee’_ from Eunwoo next to him, Wonwoo would have recognised the prize of the Bulgarian Quidditch team—and apparently the crowning jewel of Durmstrang Institute—just by face alone. 

At the front of the Hogwarts crowd, Wonwoo can make out Soonyoung standing next to the Headmaster, robes ironed and shoulders at a right angle to his neck, carrying an air of propriety and respectability that’s foreign but not necessarily misplaced on him. When the Durmstrang Headmaster introduces Taeyong to him and Jihyo, Soonyoung shakes Taeyong’s hand with what looks to be a tight grip, a sharp, challenging expression on his face, much to Taeyong’s visible confusion. 

But, because Wonwoo loves to be contrary, it’s the boy standing next to Taeyong, who laughs and pats his back, that catches Wonwoo’s attention. Soonyoung seems to recognise him too, but barely offers a glance of acknowledgement before he turns his attention back to Headmaster. Wonwoo, though, can’t stop staring at him, an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach.

It’s the Bulgarian coach’s son, and Wonwoo reflexively turns his head to the side, scanning his row until he catches sight of Seokmin staring at the boy wonderstruck. Wonwoo tries his best to hold back a condescending laugh, even though there’s no way Seokmin can hear him from this distance. He’s surprised when Seokmin turns his head and they end up making eye contact. At this point, a friend would probably wink at Seokmin teasingly, making fun of his shallow crush. Wonwoo, a notable not-friend, finds himself nodding for no reason, and looking away quickly, unnerved by the pinch in his chest. 

“He’s a looker isn’t he?” Junhui muses out loud. From next to Wonwoo, Eunwoo giggles in agreement, but Wonwoo knows it’s not Taeyong Junhui’s talking about. 

“There’s a plain sort of handsomeness about his face, I guess,” Wonwoo says, trying not to sound too petulant. 

Junhui grins, his eyes are still trained in front of him but he speaks as though he’s looking right at Wonwoo. “Well, beauty is always in the eye of the beholder, isn't it Wonwoo.”

 

 

“Pass me the _beurre_ would you Jihoon?”

“The what?” Jihoon snaps, impatient. His eyes zone in on the most foreign looking dish laid out in front of them, an unfamiliar purpley jelly.

“He means the butter, Jihoon,” Wonwoo says, in between a mouthful of steak-and-kidney pudding. 

With his face drawn blank, Jihoon uses his wand to levitate the butter towards Junhui’s side of the table, dropping it with a _plop_ right into his oyster stew. Junhui doesn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed, spooning it out of the broth and spreading it on his bread before offering some to Wonwoo. 

“No thanks.” Wonwoo frowns, pushing Junhui’s knife away. 

There’s a screech as the unoccupied chair next to Wonwoo is pulled back. Wonwoo turns his head, and Seokmin’s teeth-bared smile is suddenly taking up the entirety of his vision. “Can I sit with you?” he asks. Before Wonwoo can answer, Seokmin’s already sliding in beside him, taking the abandoned plate and utensils set out as his own. “It’s a bit lonely at my table.” 

Wonwoo’s noticed. There’s a discernible number of empty seats at the Hufflepuff table, most of which can be easily attributed to the small crowd that had begun forming around the Slytherin one. Specifically around Taeyong Lee, who in between signing autographs with a soulless and practiced efficiency, was eyeing the black, starry ceiling of the Great Hall with a longing that implied that he was either in awe, or that he wished he could disappear into it. 

“Not a fan of Taeyong?” Junhui asks from Wonwoo’s other side. 

“No, I think he’s a brilliant seeker. A prodigy, in fact,” Seokmin gushes, heaping a bowl of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “But the poor guy looks a little overwhelmed right now. Also I’m a bit, you know, nervous. He’s so famous.” 

“Where’s Soonyoung?” Wonwoo asks, intercepting any reply that might come from Junhui’s mouth. 

As though summoned, Soonyoung’s voice rises loud and clear above the clamorous dinner time chatter. “Everybody, return to your seats! Head Boy coming through!”

Wonwoo cranes his neck to see Soonyoung at the edge of the mob around the Slytherin table, trying to push his way to the front of the congregation with little success. “I’m Head Boy, these are official instructions to please return to your designated house tables. Oi, don’t push in front of me, Chanwoo, or I’ll turn your already dismal O.W.L grades into Trolls. Yes, I can do that.” 

Wonwoo and Seokmin both look towards each other, sharing a moment of prolonged eye contact. “Remember how I said Soonyoung was 99 percent straight?” Seokmin says. Junhui makes a sound of interest. Wonwoo ignores him. “I lied. He’s 98 percent straight. One percent is his crush on Taemin Lee. The other percent is his hate hard-on for Taeyong.” 

A deep laugh reverberates from behind them. Wonwoo is startled, but Seokmin almost sloshes his goblet of cranberry juice onto his shirt. “That’s certainly unique.”

Wonwoo turns around and tilts his head up to see the Bulgarian coach’s son smiling down at them. Wonwoo had actually been acutely tracking his presence for the first half of dinner, interested in the way he was the only one who could be in a thirty centimeter proximity of Taeyong Lee without making him flinch, but had lost interest once Junhui used Wonwoo’s distraction to dump the crust he’d ripped off his _pissaladière_ onto his plate. From up close the coach’s son is a lot better looking than Wonwoo had initially perceived. Still rather ordinary, but his smile is kind and his eyes warm. 

“I think I’ve met the two of you before,” the boy says, addressing them both but his eyes seem to flicker towards Seokmin. “At the World Cup?”

It’s as though his words have struck Seokmin with a Silencio charm. He’s completely mute, and Wonwoo is mutely watching him be mute, and the boy’s smile is beginning to turn into one of concern.

“Uh yes, there was... a mutual acknowledgement of... existence,” Wonwoo says, in an attempt to salvage the conversation. From the corner of his eye, he can see Junhui hiding a grin into his goblet. “But yes, nice to meet you. I’m Wonwoo.”

The boy holds out a hand, which Wonwoo takes gingerly. “Nice to meet you too, I’m Jaehyun.”

Seokmin manages to shake himself out of his stupor just in time for Jaehyun to extend a hand towards him. “Seokmin,” he says, grabbing Jaehyun’s hand. “You’re the Bulgarian coach’s son aren’t you? Your father’s done a mighty fantastic job on the team this year, I bet my money on Bulgaria to win but... Uh... You didn’t win. Not that it’s your father's fault I lost my money! I didn’t actually bet any money to begin with, it was a figure of speech and—”

“Let go of his hand, Seokmin,” Jihoon cuts in. Seokmin drops Jaehyun’s hand like he realised he’d just been holding onto one of the Giant Squid’s tentacles. _’Don’t be mean’_ Wonwoo mouths to Jihoon, who shrugs as if to say, _’I can’t help it.’_

Jaehyun laughs. “It’s fine, I told my father that his team’s formations revolve too much around Taeyong anyway. Which,” he holds up a plate, “is why I’m here. Do you mind if I steal some of your roast? I can’t get past the swarm on our table to grab some for myself.”

“Oh, of course!” Seokmin says, moving to the side to let Jaehyun lean forward and serve himself. From over Jaehyun’s back Seokmin pretends to claw his face off, but fixes his expression once Jaehyun moves away. 

“Thanks,” Jaehyun says, smiling. “I’ll see you both around then, hopefully.”

Once he leaves, Seokmin pushes his plate away to make room for his head to drop dramatically onto the table. Some mash gets into his hair anyway, and Wonwoo can see a peek of his red forehead. “I can’t believe the first words he heard out of my mouth were about Soonyoung’s hate hard-on for Taeyong,” he whines, voice muffled against the wood.

“If it’s any consolation,” Jihoon says, reaching over to take a breadstick from the bowl Seokmin had accidentally tipped over, “I’m sure he forgot about that when you started prattling away about his father.” Seokmin groans. 

“Don’t worry Seokmin,” Junhui says, cheerily. “I’d sympathy shag you.”

“You’d sympathy shag the Whomping Willow,” Jihoon retorts. 

Junhui gasps and clasps both his hands over Wonwoo’s ears. “Don’t talk about Wonwoo’s woman that way.”

Wonwoo snickers and shakes Junhui off, looking down at Seokmin and rubbing his back. “Ignore them Seokmin it’s...” he pauses, searching for something comforting to say. This isn’t quite his area of expertise. “It was cute. You were cute.” 

Seokmin shifts his head a little, revealing one eye that rests on Wonwoo. “Really?” he asks, voice hopeful.

All of a sudden, Wonwoo is hyperconscious of the feeling of Seokmin’s robes under his palm, and his skin further under that. He moves his hand away, and busies himself with piling the foreign, purple looking jelly onto his plate even though he isn’t hungry. “Yes,” he assures, blood buzzing. “Very cute.”


	4. finders keepers, losers seekers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short filler chapter until we get around to writing more of the substantive plot! apologies for how slow the updates are, but we have the entire fic planned so even if we take forever it'll eventually be finished, fingers crossed :') the writing in this chapter is credited to fashcndy, who is no longer co-authoring the fic.

Wonwoo’s favourite place to be is the library. To him, there is nothing sweeter than the degradation of paper in an aged book, centuries worth of knowledge sprawling a massive labyrinth on Hogwarts’ first floor; and he’s just barely scraped the surface. The first time he walked through the massive wooden doors he nearly passed out from awed excitement. It’s a mystery how he’d almost been sorted into Gryffindor when his love for books makes him feel like he’d bleed bronze and blue should someone grab a blade and cut him open.

He typically sticks to the same section to settle down with a book when he isn’t studying; a little alcove hidden among a stack of Muggle encyclopedias, away from the hunched shoulders of seventh years studying for their N.E.W.Ts. During midday when the sun is at its highest, the light streaming in through the stained-glass windows reminds him of sitting in his father’s study as a child.

Wonwoo is three-quarters through _Flesh Eating Trees of the World_ when a noise distracts him. A thud followed by an _oomph_. At the far side of the narrow walkway between shelves 324 and 325, his gaze lands on Seokmin, rubbing the back of his head where no doubt a book knocked into him as it travelled back to the shelf.

“Wonwoo!”

A group of Ravenclaw girls lift their heads in unison to shush Seokmin, who withers at their glares. Wonwoo is surprised Seokmin managed to find him alone, or even venture this far into the library in this first place. (The most recent time he caught Seokmin stumbling through the shelves, he was accompanied by Soonyoung, who thought it’d be a good idea to leave a trail of Bertie Bott’s along the floor so he could find his way back to where he started. He had gotten so far as five shelves before Libel caught him by his tie and made him eat the discarded liver and earwax flavoured beans from the carpet.

“I told you to bring breadcrumbs from the kitchens!” Soonyoung cried as he wiped his tongue with a corner of his robe sleeve. “Hansel and Gretel didn’t have Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans to find their way home!”

Seokmin dabbed the corners of his eye with his knuckle to collect his tears of mirth before they could fall down his cheeks. “I’m not stealing bread from the kitchens so you can act out Muggle fairy tales.”)

“I still don’t understand how you don’t get lost in here,” Seokmin whispers when he’s close enough for Wonwoo to pick up the smell of chocolate on his breath. He takes in Seokmin’s ruffled appearance, the windswept hair and reddened cheeks. “Even if you practically live here, there’s just no end to this madness.”

“Were you out playing Quidditch?” Wonwoo asks, pointedly ignoring Seokmin’s complaining. 

“Yeah.” Seokmin mirrors Wonwoo’s sitting position, drawing his knees in towards his chest, trousers straining from the effort to contain his mass of thighs. Although they’re nearly the exact same height, Seokmin gives off the feeling of being much bigger, taking up more space than Wonwoo ever could. “I get restless if I don’t play often.”

“Did Soonyoung orchestrate you escape to the pitch with his Head Boy privileges again?”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Seokmin hisses, slapping a clammy palm over Wonwoo’s mouth. “You never know where there are ears!” 

“Calm down,” Wonwoo says, after jerking his head back and wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “You’re not the first one to break rules.”

“Oh? Does this mean you’ve broken a few rules?”

Wonwoo smirks. “I’ll tell you a secret. Sometimes, I sneak into the Astronomy Tower after curfew. Mostly on nights I can’t sleep and don’t mind stargazing.”

“Who knew you were such a rebel.” Seokmin pokes a finger in the space between Wonwoo’s ribs. Wonwoo tries to avoid showing he’s ticklish there, but his knee-jerk reaction is to crumple forward, biting his lower lip to keep in the giggles. “You honestly don’t look the sort to be ticklish,” Seokmin comments. He presses harder into Wonwoo’s sides, one hand sliding up under his arms, the other moving around to prod at his belly. Wonwoo clutches his book to his chest, and despite his efforts he can’t hold back his laughter. He tries faking like he’ll bite Seokmin’s hand, but that only seems to spur Seokmin on. “What’s that?” he teases, “Use your words, Wonwoo.”

“Seokmin, please!” Wonwoo begs between wheezes, “Have mercy!”

A Ravenclaw girl clears her throat obnoxiously. “Could you go flirt somewhere else? We’re trying to study here.” They separate instantly, like repelling sides of a magnet. Wonwoo goes scarlet at the girl’s judgemental scowl. 

“Sheesh, it’s not like we were snogging,” Seokmin mumbles. He straightens out his clothing, making like he’s brushing lint off the front of his robes. They make eye contact, both blushing at the implication Seokmin’s words had. He hurriedly continues, “Which reminds me of this time after one match against Slytherin where Soonyoung and me—”

“Soonyoung and I,” Wonwoo cuts in. 

“—caught two of their Chasers doing some serious heavy petting. Soonyoung was pleased, of course. There were boobs involved.”

Wonwoo chuckles, “His favourite,” before returning his attention back to his book. He makes it three more paragraphs before the once sacred silence of the library becomes deafening. “So Seokmin,” he starts, “If you had to choose between singing and Quidditch—”

“No, you can’t ask that. It’s like if I asked if you love your mum more or your dad.”

“My mum carried me for nine months. It’s only fair I choose her in this scenario.” Wonwoo abandons _Flesh Eating Trees of the World_ , setting the book on the top of the selection he pulled from the shelves before Seokmin arrived. “Humour me. Singing or Quidditch?”

Seokmin rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t really matter when I want to become a mediwizard after we graduate, but fine. I’ll humour you.” He seems to ponder Wonwoo’s question rather seriously. Seokmin’s face is constantly in a state of amusement. Wonwoo rarely sees him with a somber expression. “Without Quidditch, I’d live. I’d be a miserable bastard, I mean, we _are_ talking about the greatest sport ever created, but I’d survive.” Seokmin pauses, long enough for Wonwoo to worry his question physically pains Seokmin to answer. After a while, he laughs. “Singing is my heart and soul, though. Can’t live without a heart, can you?”

“No, I suppose not.” A thought occurs to Wonwoo. “For me, books are my heart and soul. I want to be a writer.” He grabs the Herbology book again, feeling shy. He’s never talked about his love of writing with anyone other than Mingyu. 

“I thought you wanted to be a plant-whisperer.” 

“First of all, that isn’t a thing. Second, I guess I love plants like you love Quidditch.”

“It’s hard to compare anything to Quidditch. With Quidditch you get such an adrenaline rush. What do you get tending to plants? Besides poisoned or attacked.”

“You really love flying.” Wonwoo comments, fingers brushing mindlessly along the spines of the stack piled up next to him. He can _hear_ the smile stretch across Seokmin’s face, like the sharp crack of a back after a lifetime of bad posture. It’s the contagious sort, he knows from experience. Perhaps ‘smile’ isn’t the right word. What do you even call a smile like Seokmin’s? A bundle of good things, summer days where the sun never wants to leave, infectious warm of a fever dream littered with deep desires. What do you even do with a smile like that? It’s burdensome. Makes Wonwoo want to rip it right off his face, hoard it in his pocket, and say ‘Finders Keepers!’

“Flying is awesome,” Seokmin says, with the passion of a man’s last dying breath. “I still think you’d be brilliant at flying, Wonwoo, just brilliant. The feeling of weightlessness. Being in the air above everything else. The thrill? There’s no other feeling like it.” 

“Brilliant at flying?” Wonwoo scoffs. “Don’t you recall escorting me to the Hospital Wing after I _broke my arm flying_ in first year?”

Seokmin rubs the back of his neck, sheepishly. “Right. Uh, I just meant you’d look great out on the field. I mean, you’d look better than Soonyoung. You should see the ugly faces he makes when he’s trying to score.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Come on,” Seokmin drawls. “He knows he’s pretty. It’s why he’s such an arsehole.”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it.” 

Seokmin scoots closer, knocking his shoulder against Wonwoo’s as he leans further into his personal space. Wonwoo keeps his head down, plucking another book off the pile. His eyes loop over the same paragraph on Snargaluff pod extraction (a subject he mastered during sixth year), and Seokmin’s knees knock rhythmically against his leg, jostling his book enough to make him lose his remaining focus. Wonwoo glances sideways, meeting Seokmin’s eyes briefly before looking away. 

“I tried the Dopplebeater Defence with Yugyeom and you should have heard the Bludger whistle through the air,” Seokmin starts up again, like he’s just looking for an excuse to talk to Wonwoo. “Glad no one was in the way. Wouldn’t want to decapitate someone, yeah?”

Wonwoo laughs for a second, then stops as he considers the possibility of Seokmin literally knocking someone’s head off with an iron ball. What if the Bludger incident last year ended with his head popping off his neck, a bit like the cork from the bottle of champagne the night in the tent. He could have been the Ravenclaw equivalent of Nearly Headless Nichkhun.

“Oh god, no. Wow. I didn’t—I’m not a violent player or anything. Hitting you with that bludger last year was a totally rare and rather unfortunate accident—”

“ _Rather_ ,” Wonwoo drawls, “It was just a bruise.” 

“Well, you bruise easily. Like a peach.”

Wonwoo doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing, opting to convey his embarrassment through silence. 

“I’m quite good though, I learn from my mistakes,” Seokmin says, shyly, “I’d never hit you with a bludger again.” 

“Statistically, it’s unlikely you’ll hit me again. Mostly because I vow to keep a safe distance between my person and a game of Quidditch at any capacity.”

“I bet I can cure your fear of heights. You’d just need to ride on the back of my broom—”

“That’s what all the boys say,” Wonwoo interrupts. 

“Funny.” Seokmin opens his mouth to say something, then hesitates. “Sorry, I’m probably boring you.”

“No, not at all.” Wonwoo gestures to the books stacked between his slightly spread legs. “Your Quidditch stories make for better conversation than flesh-eating trees.” 

“Flesh-eating trees?”

Wonwoo scratches a nonexistent itch near his nose to hide a flush. “I _was_ doing some extra reading about the sentience of Mandrakes to support my project on plant psychology.” He shrugs. “It got boring so I picked up another book. The chapter on bladderworts was kind of interesting.”

“Fascinating stuff, probably.”

“It is if you’re me.”

Seokmin’s answering smirk drops like someone snatched it clear off his face, replaced by horror. “Oh no.”

Wonwoo follows his divergent line of sight to a chilling scene. Librarian Libel hovers nearby, flanked by the gaggle of Ravenclaw girls from earlier. Her cold gaze lands on Wonwoo with a brief flicker of disappointment before narrowing in on Seokmin with something almost evil lurking in her dead irises. 

“Hm, just the one this time?” she asks, tilting her head. “I was under the impression, Mr. Jeon, that you were demonstrating the wise old saying, ‘Bad things come in threes?’”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I’ll dissuade him from visiting me in the future.”

“Somehow I doubt you have that power. But I possess the power to remove two disruptions from my library. Off you go. And when you return, Wonwoo.” She points a wispy finger at Seokmin. “Make sure you keep out the riff raff.”

Wonwoo nods solemnly, standing on sleepy legs. Seokmin catches him by the elbow as he starts to stumble.

“Good riddance,” mumbles the girl flanking her studious peers. If he were more like Soonyoung, he’d be plotting revenge by now, as he is a far cry from his often brash friend, he merely glares at their retreating backs. 

They stride through the web of shelves, walking briskly to make their way outside. It takes a few seconds for Wonwoo’s eyes to adjust to the natural light after being hunched over books by candlelight for hours. Wonwoo immediately winces from the whip of October wind against his face, and against his scalp as the force of it sends his black strands into disarray. 

“It’s bloody freezing!”

“Such a baby,” Seokmin teases, arms outstretched as if testing the air for its frigidity. He doesn’t so much as flinch from the coolness, even as Wonwoo watches a cloud of breath escape his moistened lips.

The crisp mid-afternoon air slices through his robes. Wonwoo shivers, jaw tensing to keep his teeth from chattering. Moisture gathers at the corners of Wonwoo’s eyes, tears waiting for their descent at the instinctive shutting of his eyelids. He wills himself not to blink, to avoid the discomfort of the tears cooling on his skin. 

“You really that cold?” Wonwoo gives Seokmin a sharp look when he laughs, but his eyes soften when Seokmin unwinds his scarf from his neck. A refusal is just at the tip of Wonwoo’s wind chapped lips, but before he can speak, Seokmin’s wrapping the wool around his neck, fingers just barely trailing across the back of his neck.

“You realise now I can infiltrate the Hufflepuff dormitory,” he says partially to fill the silence and partially to distract from the pleased flush spreading over his face and neck. 

“Only if you can find it,” says Seokmin, voice lilting in a teasing singsong as he bids Wonwoo farewell with a wave. 

Wonwoo waits until he can no longer see Seokmin through the crowd of Beauxbatons students making their way across campus before he starts in the direction of the Ravenclaw tower.

 

 

Wonwoo takes the stairs by two, rubbing the back of his hand over his cold nose. Ascending the spiral staircase at his quickened pace brings a bit of warmth back to his toes. He answers the eagle knocker’s riddle, shuffling through the wooden door with a sniffle. The sound of the wind whistling outside of the tall, arched windows causes him to shiver with the memory of not just the cold, but of Seokmin’s too warm fingers touching his neck.

His bed calls to him, and he answers with a stumbling dive onto his stomach, aimlessly kicking his shoes and robe off. He grabs his latest Muggle literary obsession, _Pride and Prejudice_ and gets comfortable.

“Gone colour blind, Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo’s shoulders jump to his ears, novel slipping through his loose fingered grip to clatter onto the floor. Jihoon laughs, no doubt taking pleasure in scaring the shit out of Wonwoo. Wonwoo rolls his eyes and picks up his book, smoothing out the creases caused by the fall. Luckily he finds the chapter where he left off with little trouble.

“I dunno. I kinda like the bumblebee look,” Junhui pitches in. “Makes him look rather cute. Or have you been an imposter this whole time?” He asks teasingly. He manages to lounge comfortably on his bed with his perfect posture, making Wonwoo consider the possibility that Junhui had been a perverted Count in a past life. 

Jihoon laughs at Wonwoo’s puzzled expression. “You’re wearing a Puff scarf, you prat.”

Wonwoo’s hands fly up to touch his neck. “Oh.” 

Junhui snorts. “You made it all the way to the Ravenclaw tower looking like a Hufflepuff and didn’t notice? That’s not like you, Wonwoo. Were you distracted by something?” 

“More like _someone_ ,” Jihoon murmurs under his breath with just enough emphasis to bring colour to Wonwoo’s cheeks. 

“I was cold!” Wonwoo proclaims, unwinding the scarf and folding it protectively against his chest.

“So you robbed a Puff of their scarf?” asks Junhui. “You’re a bad man, Wonwoo Jeon.”

“No, I didn’t _rob_ anyone. This was loaned to me because I was _cold_.”

“Loaned to you,” Jihoon repeats. “By a Hufflepuff.”

“Yes.”

“So… Seokmin?” Wonwoo seals his mouth shut with a clack of teeth, staring silently as Jihoon watches him with his infamous expression of ultimate judgement. 

“Seokmin Lee, as in, the only Hufflepuff you know.”

“I know plenty of Hufflepuffs,” Wonwoo argues.

“Fine, Seokmin Lee, the only Hufflepuff you talk to. Better?”

“Yes. The scarf is Seokmin’s,” he admits. “I’ll give it back to him the next I see him.”

“Whatever,” Jihoon replies. 

Junhui entertains himself by tossing his wand in the air and catching it. “I can warm you up better than that scarf can,” he says, waggling his brows. “Just say the word.”

Wonwoo pantomimes locking his mouth shut and throwing away the key as Jihoon makes gagging noises into his cupped palms. 

“Now c’mon, you two,” Junhui says, “Let’s go to the Great Hall. I heard Mingyu Kim is gonna be putting his name into the Goblet of Fire tonight.”

“What?” Wonwoo says weakly. His fingers tighten around the ends of his Hufflepuff scarf. “Mingyu?”


End file.
